V 
^^0^ 






"V 













.*' .* 






.V'' 









aPvN 










■'^Ao? 
















-0/ 








.0 



/•o^ 




a > 



V 



?^^. • 





"oV^ 




« • •. 




?V^* /> 



"^^.^^ 



^ik *5 v^ 







..^t^ 



f • 




B IRE S NE ST CO T TA GE ., 




.ij „ IB n L ] f f fl 1^] C O T T 1^ C © = 
3B® L 



^ 



CLARA'S POEMS. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1861, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in ami for tiie 

Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 



2-4^/0 



; 



TO 



MRS. JAMES K. POLK, 

OF NASHVILLE, TENN., 

IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

CLARA. 



PREFACE. 



In presenting this volume of poems to the public, 
justice to myself demands I should state that it 
has been alone owing to the earnest and oft-repeated 
entreaties of many noble, true-hearted friends that I 
have done so. For their unwavering kindness through 
the darkest, saddest years of my life, I can make no 
better return than by complying with their wishes, 
and submitting these simple heart-leaves to their gentle 
care. 

They were never intended, when first written, for the 
eye of the cold and heartless; and such would never 
have rested upon them save for a mere accident un- 
necessary now to relate here. But after seeing many 
of them published again and again in the leading pa- 
pers and periodicals of the day, I have gained confi- 
dence, and having gathered up the wandering fugitives, 
with the kind assistance of a true brother in literature 
arranged them in their present form, and now send 

(V) 



VI PREFACE. 

them forth, like tender, timid birdlings from their shel- 
tered nest, through the "wide, wide world;" feeling 
well assured that those who have drank life's bitter 
cup as deeply as I have done, will receive and wel- 
come them with loving sympathy and true Christian 
indulgence. 

CLAKA. - 

BiRDSNEST Cottage, 

Nashville, Tenn., ]86L 






ittw^ptit 



BY 



JOHN T. EDGAR, D.D. 



We take much pleasure in responding to the request made to 
us by several friends, in regard to Clara's Poems, and their claims 
to publication. 

In thus responding, however, we prefer no peculiar claims to the 
privileges of a critic, in relation to any compositions, whether in 
poetry or prose. This being our confession, and premising that 
feelings of friendship have mainly prompted the request referred to, 
joined, perhaps, with the circumstance that a periodical under our 
care first contained a number of Clara's poetical contributions — at 
the time greatly admired — we would merely add, that many of 
Clara's immediate friends, in common with ourself, have been 
delighted with her poems, and with us have desired that they 
should appear in a form more worthy of their beauty, and better 
calculated to give them general circulation. To this desire of 
her friends, the retiring and unpretending Clara has, at length, 
acceded; yielding to their judgment the propriety of her becom- 
ing an authoress in a published volume of poems. Yes, she is 
truly retiring, and as delicate in her claims to attention as she is 
in the sweet images which are so meekly and touchingly con- 

(vii) 



VI 11 INTRODUCTORY, 

spicuous in many of the more tenderly pathetic of her pieces. 
It will be seen that the great charm of her verses is found, not 
in their classical allusions or romantic imagery, but in the sim- 
ple appeals which they so winningly make to all that is unarti- 
ficial, uncorrupted, truthful and responsive in the more pure and 
gentle emotions of every unsophisticated heart. She has had 
no learned resources from which to draw her inspirations. To 
such fountains, no former familiarity, or m.ore recent acquaint- 
ance, could have enabled her to resort. The school in which 
many of her most impressive lessons have been taught has been 
that of disappointment and sorrow ; and to such lessons we are 
indebted for many of the finest and most thrilling stanzas of her 
often plaintive and pensive muse. In short, to us the great 
beauty and effect of her poetical creations are to be found in 
their touching simplicity; in their flow not of rhyme only, but 
of sentiment — pure, moral, and elevating sentiment ; in their 
echoes to the kindlier and better emotions of human nature ; in 
their moving appeals, through many alternating trials and afflic- 
tions, to hearts that have been smitten by adversity, or rendered 
desolate by grief ; in their softening and refining influence; and 
in their tendency to elevate by their purity, and their freedom 
from all sickly affectation or unhallowed imagery, the purest and 
best affections belonging to human hearts. In such hearts, they 
must always find many responsive tones ; for such hearts are 
always more or less alive to the beautiful in description, to the 
sympathetic in sorrow, and to the truthful in sentiment or taste. 
In conclusion, we would not be understood as intimating that 
in all her poems Clara has been equally happy and successful. 
This would be an assumption in her favor which has never been 
verified by any other poet or poetess w^ho has preceded her. 
We admit that the frequent inspirations of her muse have not 



INTRODUCTORY. IX 

been always equally successful. The wing of the brightest and 
fleetest bird wall sometimes droop and grow weary. Such, we 
think, has been the case with Clara, both at times in the selec- 
tion of her subjects, and in the poetic drapery wath w^hich she 
has clothed them. But in all of them we discover more or less 
the same leading attractions, the same beauty of expression, the 
same natural flow of feeling, the same gentle current of thought- 
ful tenderness and of genuine pathos, by which some of her more 
happy creations are rendered exquisitely beautiful and touching. 
Let them, then, we say, be published, both for their ow^n in- 
trinsic merit, and as an lionor to the city which can claim the 
residence of Clara. We wish the friends who have resolved to 
publish them ample success in bringing them before the public. 



CONTENTS. 



CLARA'S POEMS. 





PAGE 


Sabbath Mokn 


. 17 


A Sabbath Eve at Oakland Cottage 


18 


Night on the iNTississippi ..... 


. 20 


Twilight Musings ...... 


21 


The Star and Cross .... 


. 23 


Bury me not in the deep, deep Sea 


25 


The Fatal Gift 


. 27 


To a Butterfly 


28 


Roman Nights ....... 


. 29 


There is a Time for all Things 


30 


The Orphans' Fair . . . . . 


. 31 


Invocation to the Muse ..... 


33 


Spirit of the Mountain Breeze . . . 


. 35 


Midnight Musings ..... 


.36 


The Blind Girl to her Bird . . . . 


. 38 


Forget Thee ! ...... 


41 


Earth to Earth 


. 43 


To Cynthia 


. . 44 


Farewell to the Old Year . . . . . 


. 45 


Angel Whispers ...... 


47 


The World is full of Beauty . . . . 


... .49 


The Forty-second Psalm .... 


51 


What is my Name when I atn Dead? 


. 52 


The Orphans' Appeal ..... 


53 


The Drunkard's Wife 


. 55 


That Soft, Brown Curl 


57 


The Wounded Bird 


. 58 


"Chateaux en Espagne" .... 


59 



(xi) 



Xll 



CONTENTS. 



The Close of the Year 1856 . 

Time's Soliloquy . 

To an Absent Friend 

Sunset on the Mississippi 

To George D. Prentice 

What is Love? 

Earth is not our Home 

'Twas but a Dream 

A Summer Sabbath Morn 

Let Me Die at Home 

Come to my Grave . 

The Exile's Memory of Home 

To Miss Mary L. G s 

Love's Memories 

Sonnet to Sleep 

The Death of Hope 

I am Weary .... 

1 hink of Me 

Lines sent with a Withered Leaf 

What is Masonry ? 

To Mrs. Chase, the Heroine of Tampico 

Lines Dedicated to the "Chatham Artillery" 

Reply to the Preceding, (by an Honorary Member 

Lines on the Death of a Stranger, whose Grave was made upon 

the Summit of Grand Tower, on the Mississippi 
A Mother's Lament . . . 

Loneliness of Heart . . . 

A Better World . . . . . " . . . 
Lines on the Death of Benjamin, only son of General and Mrs. 

Pierce .......... 

To Willie S. H s 

Reply to the " Invitation" of Quien Sabe .... 

Hours of Sadness ......... 

A Dirge .......... 

The Old Church . . 

Eirst Love .......... 

Eighteen To-day !..,...... 

Impromptu . . . . , . . . 

Coaae to Me in Dreams ........ 



PAGE 

GO 
03 
64 
66 
67 
68 
70 
71 
72 
73 
74 
75 
76 
77 
79 
79 
81 
82 
84 
85 
86 
88 
89 

91 
92 
94 
95 

97 
99 
101 
102 
108 
104 
106 
107 
108 
110 



CONTENTS. 



Xlll 



Moru upon the Mountains 

To a Friend 

Alone! Alone! 

The Summer Rain . 

The Dead of 1853 

The Exile's Song of Home 

If We must Part 

An Autumn Evening in the Counti-y 

A Birth-day Greeting . 

Twilight Shadows . 

The Fairy of Melrose . 

My Heart is Sad 

Snow flakes and Flowers 

The Close of the Year 

Memories 

The Stranger's Funeral 

Why Weep for the Dead? 

Lines Suggested by the Funeral of the Hon A. V 

Night Thoughts at Oakland Cottage 

Lines on the Death of my only Sister, Mrs. Jane 

Come unto Me, and I will give you Rest 

Wedded Love . 

"I Think of Thee" . 

The Angel's Serenade 

To One Beloved . 

"The Broken-hearted" . 

I would I were a Bird . 

To Miss Lida A n 

]\Iy Peerless Flower 

To 0. H. L. . . . 

The Ascension 
God's Beverage 
-To my Brother, J. C Leake 
Speak Kindly to the Orphan 
Deceived ...... 

To my Friend Col. George F. A — k — s 

Lines to Mrs. O. K 

"Dear Little Frank" .... 
Reflections of a Hus'iand on the Miniat-.iroof his 



Brown 
W. T 



arver 



Wife 



PAGE 
111 

112 
lU 
115 
116 

118 

120 

121 

122 

123 

125 

126 

127 

129 

180 

132 

134 

135 

136 

138 

139 

140 

141 

142 

145 

146 

148 

150 

152 

153 

154 

158 

159- 

161 

162 

164 

165 

166 

168 



XIV 



CONTENTS. 



Boyd 



Midnight *■ . . . . . . . 

Sympathy ...,..,... 

Lines to Miss Narcissa P. Saunders ..... 

The Music of Nature ........ 

On Seeing a Portrait that bore Resemblance to a Beloved Sis- 
ter ,,,.^. ..••.. 

The Death of General Jackson ...... 

The Dove of Campbell's Hill 

Lines written on Returning to Nashville .... 

My Ideal 

To Amelia .......... 

'•Forget Me Not" . . 

To Ada in Heaven ........ 

Lines, after hearing Dr. Mackay's beautiful Lecture on Poetry 
and Song ...... 

Thoughts Suggested by the Miniature of Little 

Little Sammy's Address .... 

Clara's Thanks for the Unfinished Serenade 

Evening Musings ..... 

Lonely Musings ..... 

Why do I Love Thee? .... 

Hast Thou Forgot Me? 

If We must Part ..... 

May Day ...... 

Childless ...... 

The Wanderer's Return 

The Lady to her Chosen Kniglit 

Sabbath Morning in the Country 

Why Should I Sing? .... 

To Cecil, of Versailles, Missouri . 

To my Heart ...... 

My Heart Palace .... 

To a distant Friend . . . . 

The Faithless — A Song 

The Stage-horn 

Lines on receiving an exquisite Bouquet from Miss S. B y 

The Anniversary ........ 

Faded Flowers .... 

On the death of Mrs. Sarah Leake 



PAGE 

171 
172 
174 

175 
176 
178 
180 
181 
182 
183 
181 



186 
188 
189 
190 
191 
192 
193 
194 
195 
196 
197 
199 
200 
201 
202 
203 
205 
206 
207 
209 
210 
212 
213 
215 
216 



CONTENTS. 


XV 




VMiF. 


My Last Request ....... 


. 218 


New Year's Eve ....... 


219 


Sweet Memories of Thee . . , . . 


.221 


Do you remember Me? ..... 


223 


On the Death of Mrs. Amelia G. Welby . 


. 224 


On Visiting my Daughter's Grave on her Birthday 


225 


On Parting with my only Daughter . . . . 


. 227 


A Wish 


229 


The Death of the Gifted One 


. 231 


Tlie ]\Iigl)ty, too, must Die ..... 


232 


The Spirit Land 


. 233 


Autumn Musings ...... 


235 


There is a Better World 


. 236 


Viuvela ........ 


238 


Hours of Sadness . . . . , . 


. 239 


The Fairy Isle ....... 


240 


Little Rosabelle ....... 


. 242 


On the Death of my Youngest Sister , 


243 


On the Death of Mrs. Eliza Odom Simpson 


. 245 


The Penitent 


246 


To Lucia . . . . . . ' . 


.248 


The Lily of W^oodlawn ..... 


250 


A June Morning at Woodlawn . . . . 


. 251 


An Invocation ....... 


252 


A Morning at the Cemetery . , . . . 


. 253 


The Evening Star ...... 


255 


The Magic Spell . . . . 


. 256 


Farewell to Woodbine Cottage .... 


257 


The Autumn Morn ....... 


. 259 


To a Friend ....... 


261 


A Sister's Love ....... 


. 262 


Our Baby Boys ....... 


263 


Musings on the Last Night of the Year . 


. 264 


Little Ida 


265 


Lines — for Music ....... 


. 267 


To Ada in Piichmond ...... 


268 


A Winter Scene on the Mississippi . . . . 


. 269 


Invocation to Spring ...... 


271 


The Wanderer ....... 


. 274 



XVI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

There is a Spiritual Body ... . . 275 

Lines to One who can understand them ..... 276 

To a Humming Bird ........ 278 

Who is CLara? . . . 279 

Sonnet 280 

The Border Country ........ 281 

ADA'S POEMS. 

To my Mother 283 

Give Tears 286 

Day Dreams . . . . . ... . 287 

Bear Me away to my Childhood's Home . . . ' . . 289 

No, not too Late! 291 

The Daughter's Last Prayer ....... 293 

Thou Didst return, my Stricken Dove ..... 294 

POEM BY JOHN L. MARLING 

Napoleon 297 

Obituary Notice of John L. Marling — from the Nashville Union 

and American ......... 300 

Another Obituai-y Notice from the Fifty-first Number of the 

Masonic Mirror and Keystone ...... 303 



^^l^ 



SABBATH MORN. 



Bathed in the orient flush of morn, 

How lovely earth appears ! 
New tints the opening rose adorn, 

Gem'd with night's dewy tears. 
Soft whispering breezes sigh around, 

And snowy cloudlets lie. 
Like angel watchers, floating through 

The calm, pure, azure sky. 

The mountain-tops reflect the rays 

That usher in the day-god's beams; 
The birds trill forth their songs of praise ; 

The wave in gold and crimson gleams : 
Oh, beautiful ! My spirit drinks 

In copious draughts of love divine. 
While gazing on this glorious scene, 

And worships at a holier shrine 

3 (IT) 



18 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Than mortal hands could ever rear, 

Or mortal language e'er portray; 
For angel voices, murmuring near. 

Seem wafting my glad soul away. 
Sweet, tranquil morn ! so clear, so calm. 

What soft emotions fill my breast ! 
Bright emblem of that glorious dawn — 

A Sabbath of eternal rest I 



'^■^- 



A SABBATH EYE AT "OAKLAND COTTAGE/'* 

The sun's last golden rays are brightly streaming 

Through the leaf-glory of these grand old trees ; 
A dewy freshness bathes each bud and blossom. 

That flings its perfume on the evening breeze ; 
A holy calm seems resting on the valley — 

O'er plain and dell the twilight shadows creep, 
And birds and bees their vesper hymns are singing, 

And folding up their weary wings to sleep. 

A Sabbath eve, oh, how I love to linger, 
And catch the echo from the distant hills — 

The dove's low, plaintive coo, that's softly blended 
With whispering leaves and faintly murmuring rills ! 

^ The residence of the late Hon. J. L. Marling, near Nashville, Tenn. 



A SABBATH EVE AT "OAKLAND COTTAGE." 19 

Ah! they are voices, soft, melodious, thrilling I 
The glad, sweet freshness of the summer eve. 

That o'er my heart its gentle influence breathing, 
Bids me again the angel Hope receive. 

For my life's hope, I ofttimes think, resembles 

The last faint crimson of the sunset skies — 
Bright, transient hue, that on the clear wave trembles 

But for a moment, then in darkness dies. 
And many a mournful thought is o'er me stealing, 

As 'mid these quiet shades I pensive stray, 
Where nature smiles in all her summer glory — 

But my sad heart refuses to be gay. 

For one by one my earthly ties are severing, 

Until the last seems almost rent apart ; 
Death's gloomy form, alas I is dimly hovering 

O'^r my soul's idol, with uplifted dart; 
Yet as the sunset melts in deeper glory. 

And pure, bright stars beam softly from above, 
Faith whispers, " Hope, sad and weary spirit. 

And trust thy 'jewels' to a God of love." 



20 CLARA'S POEMS. 



NIGHT ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 

'Tis night upon this broad, majestic river — 
'No cloud to dim the azure vault above — 

While myriad stars amid its bright waves quiver, 
And all around is breathing peace and love. 

The moon, resplendent in her queenly beauty. 
With one sweet star of promise by her side, 

Is tinging every wave with molten silver, 
That mirrors her fair face within its tide. 

Yon little isle, that seems so calmly sleeping 

In magic loveliness beneath her ray, 
Might be a spot where fairy forms are keeping 

Their watch, to guide the wanderer on his way. 

Oh, who can gaze on such a scene of glory. 
And doubt. the existence of a power supreme? 

Who would not laugh to scorn the atheist's story. 
That earth is but a chance — heaven but a dream ? 

'Twas here the savage war-whoop once was pealing. 
While the red man glided o'er the sparkling wave, 

Death and destruction to the wanderer dealing, 
Who found, instead of rest, a bloody grave. 



TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 21 

How all is changed I Proud cities now are springing, 

And lofty spires uptowering to the sky, 
And vesper bells their low, sweet chimes are ringing, 

Where erst was heard the warrior's battle-cry. 

And ships from every clime come richly laden : 
Where once the light canoe was wont to glide. 

With stately chief, or dark-brow'd Indian maiden, 
'Now mighty steamers cleave the sparkling tide. 

And on thy banks, O great and wondrous river. 
Fair liberty hath paused and reared her dome. 

That here the oppressed of every land and nation 
May find a brother's welcome and a home. 



TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 

When the twilight shades are gathering, 

With their ever-changing hues. 
O'er the mountain-tops and valleys. 

Then I love to sit and muse. 
Building many a fairy palace 

In the gold and crimson clouds — 
Till the darkness, like a mantle. 

All their glorious beauty shrouds. 
3* 



2§ CLARA'S POEMS. 

Then the evening star comes softly 

From her radiant home of light, 
Like an angel pure and holy, 

Watching o'er the world by night; 
And the crescent moon is gliding 

Like a pearly bark on high. 
With the stars like jewels gleaming 

In her pathway through the sky. 

Oh, how quiet, calm, and holy 

Is this solemn hour to me, 
With its wondrous star-light splendor 

Breathing of eternity ; 
And the night-breeze gently sighing 

With the silvery, tinkling rills, 
And the echoes, faint replying, 

All the air with music fills ! 

Then, my soul, at last awaken 

From thy leaden trance of woe. 
Strike thy harp, long since forsaken, 

Bid its sweetest numbers flow. 
Ah ! perchance some heart may quiver 

With a thrill of strange delight, 
As its tones are softly floating 

O'er the starry waves of night — 

Swelling upward like the murmurs 
Of some tranquil summer sea, 



THE STAR AND CROSS, 

When its dimpled waves are breaking 

In their mournful melody ; 
For I feel that ever round me 

Angel forms with snowy wings 
Guide my trembling, wayward fingers 

As they touch the quivering strings. 



THE STAR AND CROSS. 

TT^KOM cliildhood I have always loved the Evening Star. It has 
JL ever possessed a strange, mysterious influence over my imagin- 
ation ; and I have often fancied it some bright spirit, looking gently 
down to soothe, console, and bless some lone one of earth. I love to 
wander unobserved beneath its softly radiant light, and muse on 
hopes and friends forever gone. A few evenings since it presented 
a most beautiful appearance — shining with uncommon brilliancy — 
apparently just over the cross of the Catholic church, and seemed 
whispering to my weary spirit, "Here lay all thy sorrows down, and 
be comforted." 

Sweet star of eve, at this lone hour, 

Oh, how I love to gaze on thee ! 
Thy gentle rays have magic power ; 

Their silent spell is memory. 

For thus I've ever loved to muse, 

From childhood, 'neath thy pensive light. 

And dream my future life should be 
Like thee — forever pure and bright. 



24 Clara's poems. 

And now, what scenes of love and joy- 
Are not recalled, sweet orb, by thee ! 

The fair, the beautiful, again 
In memory's magic glass I see. 

And there was one — a lovely one — 
As mournfully at eve we strayed, 

Who raised her tearful glance to thee. 
And thus in faltering accents said : — 

"Though I must leave my childhood's home. 
And from the friends I love must part. 
Although in distant lands I roam — 
Time cannot change my loving heart. 

"And when thy tearful eyes shall rest 
Upon this Star, so dear to thee, 
Where'er I am — whate'er my fate — 
Then, dearest sister, think of me." 

We parted — and when twilight shades 
Are gathering over hill and plain. 

And thou, sweet Star, beam'st softly forth, 
I seem to hear her voice again. 

For now she dwells in heaven above. 
While I still linger here below ; 

But thou still beamest pure, undimmed 
By all my tears of grief and woe. 



"BURY ME NOT IN THE DEEP, DEEP SEA" 25 

And as above yon Sacred Cross 

Thou sliinest with clear and steady ray, 

Thou seem'st the star oi faith and hope, 
To guide me on my lonely way. 

Then at that Cross I'll meekly bow, 
And lay my sins and sorrows down, 

Assured that Christ will raise me up, 
To wear with her a glorious crown. 



"BURY ME NOT IN THE DEEP, DEEP SEA." 

"Oh, BtTRT me not in the deep, deep sea!" 

WERE the words which came faint and mournfully from the pale 
lips of that dying youth, as he lay on his cabin couch. — 
Isabella, in the Olive Branch. 

"Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea, 
Where the billows wildly rave, 
Where no sweet flowers will ever bloom, 

Or sunbeams light my grave ! 
Oh, grant this simple boon to me, 
Bury me not in the deep, deep sea. 

"But lay me down on the green hill-side, 
Where the bones of my fathers sleep. 
Where my mother may pray at eventide, 
And my sisters may o^er me weep. 



26 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Oh, comrades, this could never be, 

If you make my grave in the deep, deep sea. 

"And there is another, dearer still, 
Who will look for me in vain ; 
Oh, how will you tell her that far away, 

Beneath the dark, cold main, 
Ye've laid me down where my shroud shall be 
The tangled weed in the deep, deep sea !" 

The setting sun threw his golden gleams 

Round the dying sufferer's head. 
And the moon came out with the quiet stars 

As the spirit softly fled. 
But its last faint murmurings seemed to be, 
^' Oh, bury me not in the deep, deep sea !" 

Yet they heeded not his last fond prayers, 

But over the tall ship's side 
They lowered him down with sighs and tears. 

In the mournfully sounding tide ; 
And the stormy winds shall his requiem be, 
Who sleeps so calm in the deep, deep sea. 



THE FATAL GIFT. 27 



THE FATAL GOT. 

i i TT THANK you for the wish that I may be free from 'sorrow's 
X dart,' but would almost consent to feel the wound, if I could 
give vent to my feeling in such plaintive and beautiful language as 
the gifted 'Claka!' " — Note from a Friend. 

Ask not, dear girl, the fatal gift 

Which thou hast thus ascribed to me ; 
I would not cast o'er thy young life 

The weird spell of ''Poesy." 
Not thine the mournful fate of those 

Who woo the minstrel's ''gentle art," 
To dream for years of love andifame, 

Then wake to see those dreams depart. 

Thou knowest not how oft their song 

Is but an ecJio from the past — 
A knell across life's passion-wave, 

On which hope^s withered buds were cast ; 
How oft around some idol shrine 

They wreathe bright gems by fancy wrought, 
And waste on dull and careless minds 

The priceless pearls of living thought. 

For me — I do but sing because 

My soul hath many a low, sweet tone 

Forever murmuring in its depths. 
When I am weary and alone. 



28 olara's poems. 

I know I may not win a name, 
For mine is but a lowly lot ; 

For me shall bloom no wreath of fame— 
I soon shall die and be forgot. 

And when amid the minstrel throng 

My simple lute is heard no more, 
Ah ! who will miss its mournful song, 

When all its melody is o'er ? 
None, save some gentle heart like thinej 

With tender love and pity fraught. 
Will give those fitful strains of mine, 

More than a passing, careless thought. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 

Beautiful butterfly ! happy are you. 

Kissing the flowers and sipping the dew ; 

Bathing your wings in the morn's rosy light, 

Folding them up, with the shadows of night, 

When bright stars peep out through the beautiful sky, 

To rest on the rose's sweet bosom and die. 

Beautiful butterfly ! sportive and gay, 
Roaming from blossom to blossom all day. 
Inhaling their sweets in a long sigh of bliss, 
Thrilling and pure as a maiden's first kiss ; 



ROMAN NIGHTS. 29 

When zephyrs are bearing the lily's last sigh, 
Then fold up your bright starry pinions and die. 

For, oh ! it were meet for a life such as thine. 
Beautiful type of a nature divine, 
To die when the blossoms are falling to sleep, 
And o'er them the night-dews in loneliness weep ; 
When the nightingale's singing a soft lullaby. 
On the rose's sweet bosom, oh, rest thee and die. 



ROMAN NIGHTS. 



WRITTEN after reading <' Roman Nights, or Tombs of the 
Scipios," where the shade of Cornelia is represented as la- 
menting over the degeneracy of the modern Romans. 

Thus the grandeur and glory 

Of earth will decay— 
The noble, the mighty, 

Must all pass away ; 
But time shall but add 

To a Cicero's fame, 
And wreathe a fresh garland 

Round Brutus' great name. 
Then weep not, Cornelia, 

Thou beautiful shade : 
The renown of the Scipios 

Never shall fade ; 
4 



30 CLARA'S POEMS 

Though their altars be broken, 

Their tombs overthrown, 
Yet while knowledge remaineth 

Their deeds shall .be known. 
And thou, lovely matron, 

Time-honored, shalt stand, 
The pride of each mother 

In our patriot land, 
Who will point to her sons. 

And, like thee, exclaim : 
"Ye alone are my jewels-^ 

Deserve well the name I" 



nm- 



"THERE IS A TIME FOR ALL THINGS." 

There is a time for mirth — 

In youth's fresh, joyous hour. 
Ere the young, glad heart hath felt the sting 

Of grief's corroding power. 
Ere the sparkling eye is dimmed with tears. 

Or care hath paled the cheek. 
When the rosy lip is wreathed in smiles, 

And truth and honor speak, 
When hope a paradise makes of earth — 

Oh, then is the time for joy and mirth. 



THE orphan's fair. 31 

There is a time to weep — 

When we gaze on the silent dead, 
The lovely and lost, in their dreamless sleep, 

And know the pure spirit's fled ; 
When we feel the iron hath entered a soul 

Where grief was before unknown. 
And we steal away like the stricken deer 

To bear our anguish alone ; 
In the lonely hours when others sleep — 

Then, then is the time to pray and weep. 

And there is a time to die — 

When the heart grows sick of life, 
With its false and fleeting pageantry. 

Its mockery and strife ; 
When the soul, redeemed and purified, 

Longs to soar above, 
To dwell with the pure, the sanctified, 

Where all is peace and love ; 
When faith can look beyond the sky — 

Oh, then is the time to rejoice and die. 



THE ORPHAN'S FAIR. 

Oh, come to the Orphan's Fair to-night ! 
The eyes of beauty are sparkling bright. 
And lips that rival the rose's dye 
Are whispering softly, "Buy, come buy;" 



32 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And their gentle murmurs you'll surely heed, 
When you know for the orphan child they plead. 

Then come — we have presents rich and rare, 
To please the taste of "ladie faire;" 
And fragrant flowers whose radiant hue 
Seems still impearled with the morning dew ; 
And the bashful lover can slyly say 
How much he loves — in a sweet bouquet. 

And we've caps, and mantles, and pretty toys. 
With soldiers and drums for the little boys ; 
And waxen dolls, with silken curls. 
And cradles to rock, for the darling girls ; 
And a thousand beautiful things are here. 
That may serve as a delicate souvenir. 

Come, fathers — come, with your happy band 
Of prattling children by the hand, 
And as each smiling face you view, 
Think they may soon be friendless too ; 
And let your bounty freely flow, 
. To bless and soothe the orphan's woe. 

Come, mothers, on whose gentle breast 
A cherub babe is lulled to rest ; 
There is a homeless, helpless child. 
On whom no doting mother smiled. 
Ah I not in vain we ask of you. 
You'll give, and love the orphan too. 



INVOCATION TO THE MUSE. 33 

And brothers, sisters — ye who twine 
Affection's wreath, and fondly join 
Around your father's board at eve, 
Remember those who sadly grieve 
For home and friends of other years — 
Oh, cheer their hearts, and dry their tears. ' 

We've gathered them within our fold, 
And sheltered them from want and cold ; 
And mothers, loving as their own, 
Strive to replace the dear ones gone; 
And ye who would our labors share, 
Come, haste ye to the orphan's fair. 

And God will bless the generous deed 
Of those who, to the orphan's need. 
Of their abundance give a share — 
For they are His peculiar care — 
And peace shall angel-like descend. 
To bless the lonely orphan's friend. 



INVOCATION TO THE MUSE. 

Depart not, sweet and gentle Spirit 
Light upon my darkened way ; 

Leave me not, thus sad and lonely ; 
Shed thy soft, benignant ray 
4* 



34 CLARA'S POEMS. 

O'er my soul, and fill its yearning 
With the beauty and the flowers 

Of that heaven, whose music ever 
Echoes through this world of ours. 

Sweet Spirit I earth is not thy dwelling, 

Yet thine influence I have known. 
Murmuring by the stream, the mountain. 

Heard it in the whispering tone 
Of the morning breeze, that softly 

Sweeps across the dewy plain. 
In the autumn winds that whisper 

'Mid the golden harvest grain. 

Thou hast taught me, gentle Spirit, 

How to bear life's heaviest woes ; 
To gather sweets from every bitter, 

'Mid the thorns to find the rose ; 
And though its beauty oft hath faded, 

Still its fragrance will remain ; 
And hope whispers, " From its ashes. 

Phoenix-like, 'twill spring again." 



SPIRIT OF THE MOUNTAIN BREEZE. 35 



SPIRIT OE THE MOUNTAIN BREEZE. 

Spirit of the mountain breeze ! 

Whispering, sighing 'mid the trees, 

As the sun's returning ray 

Ushers in the Sabbath day ; 

Lifting up the silvery clouds 

That o'er the valley fall like shrouds, 

While from every glittering spray, 

Wakened by the blush of -day, 

Tiny warblers plume their wing, 

And their welcome sweetly sing ; 

And the dove with plaintive moan 

Coos within the forest lone ; 

And the distant mountains lie 

Dark against the azure sky; 

Thou com'st with fragrance and perfume 

From the wild flowers in their bloom, — 

Oh, bathe my throbbing brow with these, 

Spirit of the mountain breeze ! 

Spirit of the mountain breeze, 
Come with gentle memories 
Of the past, when I was blest ; 
Soothe my weary heart to rest, 



36 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Banish all my fond regret, 
Teach, oh, teach me to forget 
Thoughts that, like wild billows, roll 
O'er the gladness of my soul, 
And, this glorious Sabbath day. 
Bear them on thy wings away ! 

Sweet Spirit ! I cannot behold 
Thy waving pinions soft unfold, 
Yet I know thou'rt passing by, 
For I hear thy balmy sigh, 
Whispering in a low, sweet tone. 
As I sadly muse alone 
Of friends beloved, but far away, 
Who sigh for me this Sabbath day — 
Oh, bear my loving thought to these, 
Sweet Spirit of the mountain breeze 1 



MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. 

'Tis midnight's lone and solemn hour, 
And sad the night wind sighs around, 

And stars, like angel watchers, seem 
To guard the azure depths profound. 

The moon glides swiftly through the clouds, 
That part like banks of rifted snow, 

And o'er each strange fantastic peak 
She casts a softly-radiant glow. 



MIDNIGHT MUSINGS. B1 

And ever as she sweeps along, 

With queen-like majesty and pride, 

One pure, bright star, unchanging still 
As constant love, is by her side. 

Oh ! how I love at this lone hour, 
To leave my restless couch of pain. 

While memory, with unerring power, 
Recalls the scenes of youth again ! 

Yon glorious sky shone just the same 
When life to me was fresh and fair, 

As now, when silvery threads are twined 
Amid my locks of raven hair. 

Ah ! still the same, as when my heart 
First strove the Chaldean's lore to trace, 

And blessed the gentle faith that made 
Each star a blissful dwelling-place. 

Yes, calm they smile, as when the breeze 
Swept lightly o'er my youthful brow, 

I knelt beneath their living light, 

And breathed love's purest, holiest vow. 

And they have kept a record true. 

Of all I've loved and lost below. 
The bitter tears — the wasting grief, 

Which none on earth will ever know. 



38 CLARA'S POEMS. 

They've seen, while in their earliest bloom, 
The flowers that love and hope intwined 

Around my heart, death rend away, 
Till scarce a leaf remains behind. 

And as the midnight breezes sweep 
Across my worn and feverish brow. 

Remembrance o'er the past must weep — 
Yet to thy chast'ning, Lord, I bow. 

And now, as with a soul resigned, 
I kneel beneath this jeweled dome. 

Faith whispers, ''Weary one, be still; 
Thou hast beyond the stars a home." 



THE BLIND GIRL TO HER BIRD. 

MISS , an amiable and interesting young lady, who has been 
blind for several years, is the possessor of a beautiful canary, 
and while listening to its warblings her sweet face brightens with 
pleasant emotions, and I have often tried to imagine what her 
thoughts were while listening to its charming melody. 

My bird, my bird ! thy joyous song. 

So gushing, glad, and free. 
This bright, sweet summer morn awakes 

No thrill of joy in me; 



THE BLIND GIRL TO HER BIRD. 39 

I hear the perfume-laden breeze, 

That cools my throbbing brow, 
Make music 'mid the quivering leaves, 

And whispering round me now. 

I know far up the clear, blue sky 

The silvery cloudlets sweep, 
Like angel pinions, softly o'er 

Me as I sadly weep ; 
Ay, weep that ne'er again I'll see 

The gates of morn unfold. 
Nor watch the rose-tinged billows play 

In a sea of liquid gold. 

My bird, my bird ! thou hast carried me back 

To the sunny days of yore, 
When I wandered a careless, happy child, 

Where I shall roam no more. 
Oh ! never more shall my nut-brown curls 

Be tossed by the laughing wind. 
As I chase the butterflies, golden winged, 

For now, God, I'm blind ! 

Ay, blind! in the sweet spring-time of youth, 

When life seems ever bright. 
Am I doomed to wander a lonely thing 

In the shadowy gloom of night. 
I must see my sweet mother's face no more, 

Nor the light of her loving smile, 



40 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Only feel her hot tears upon my brow, 
As she prays for her sightless child. 

My bird ! thy song's like the rippling brook, 

That murmured low and sweet. 
Where so oft in my school-girl days I loved 

To bathe my wearied" feet ; 
Where the tangled grape-vine loops hung low, 

From the tall old maple trees. 
And violets grew in the shady nooks. 

That we found out by the breeze. 

There, too, we gathered the pale wild rose, 

A fragrant wreath to twine, 
And crowned the victor, who highest dared 

To swing in the old grape-vine. 
But never more shall my merry sport 

Make the woodland echoes ring, 
Nor my pulses leap, with a wilder thrill. 

To the rush of that dear old swing. 

My bird, my bird ! how the very air 

Yibrates to thy last sweet note ! 
'Twas as if some gentle spirit sang 

To me from thy golden throat, 
"Hope on, hope on; oh ! weary heart, 

Strength shall to thee be given ; 
Though dark thy path may be on earth. 

There'' s light for thee in heaven.'''' 



FORGET thee! 41 



FORGET THEE! 

IFoRGET thee ! ay, when life shall cease 

To thrill this heart of mine ; 
But not till then can I forget 

One look or tone of thine. 
Oh, no I it mingles with the sound 

Of everything I hear : 
And think'st thou I can e'er forget 

One I have loved so dear ? 

Forget thee ! when I raise mine eyes 

To yon blue vault above, 
I think how oft I've gazed with thee 

On those bright orbs of love ; 
And as they roll their onward course 

Still changeless, clear, and free, 
I think how I can be like them 

In my true love for thee. 

Forget thee ! 'tis a bitter word — 

I would it were unsaid ; 
Forgetfulness is not with life, 

But with the silent dead. 
5 



42 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And till the icy hand of death 
Shall clasp my throbbing brow, 

This heart shall still remain as true, 
As constant, pure, as now. 

Forget thee ! when I kneel in prayer 

Thou'rt ever by my side, 
And thy soft tones seem mingling with 

My hymn at eyentide ; 
And when thy name is blended with 

Each pure and hallowed thought. 
In fervent orisons to Heaven, 

Say, canst thou be forgot ? 

Forget thee I yes, when o'er my grave 

The careless foot may tread ; 
When this sad heart hath found its rest 

Among the quiet dead ; 
I then may cease to think of thee, 

As earthly mortals do, 
But oh ! I'll meet thee, love, in heaven, 

With heart unchanged and true. 



EARTH TO EARTH." 43 



"EARTH TO EARTH." 

I NEVER could bear the thought of being buried in a vault, or in 
one of those gloomy metallic coffins: the very thought makes 
me shudder. No, no! Lay me in the fresh, green earth, where my 
body may return to dust as soon as possible, and, thus purified, 
spring up, perhaps, in the form of the very flowers I love so well. 
Let no cold marble rest upon my pulseless heart, but let the silent 
snows of winter, the bright sunshine of summer, buds of spring 
and leaves of autumn, dews of summer twilight, and gentle rain, 
fall upon my grave. 

Oh ! bury me in the cool, damp earth, 

Where April violets bloom, 
That o'er my weary, stricken heart 

May float their first perfume ; 
Where birds may build their tiny nests, 

And sing their songs of love, 
And fold their downy wings to rest 

'Mid whispering leaves above. 

And lay me where the pure white snow, 

Like fond affection's tear, 
May fall upon my quiet grave, 

And bid spring flowers appear ; 
And where the wandering breeze may sigh 

A mournful requiem o'er 
The minstrel lute, whose broken chords 

Shall sing of love no more. 



44 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And bury me as the sun declines 

In the brightly glowing west, 
With crimson, purple, and golden clouds 

Sinking to regal rest ; 
As the moon walks forth in silvery robe, 

And the vesper star appears. 
And blossom and leaf bend gently down 

'Neath twilight's dewy tears. 

And there I shall softly, sweetly sleep, 

In simple, childlike trust. 
And wild birds sing and violets grow 

O'er the form that turns to dust ; 
To bloom, perchance, like some fair flower, 

Above the fresh green sod, 
Transplanted to a happier clime, 

The paradise of God. 



TO CYNTHIA. 

Shine on, gentle Cynthia, thou queen of the night, 
And cheer my lone heart with thy beautiful light ; 
For the friends that I love will, though distant they be 
When they view thy mild radiance, think fondly of me. 

O'er my heart, lovely planet, as o'er thee, has passed 
A cloud, all my bright expectations to blast ; 



FAREWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. 45 

It will quickly pass from thee, and radiant and clear 
Thou wilt shine — but my life is still darkened with care. 

When thy soft rays are glancing o'er valley and hill, 
What visions entrancing arise at my will ; 
How oft have I wandered beneath thy pale beams, 
And heard a sweet voice like the music of dreams ! 

Our low-murmured vows of affection and love 
Were pure as the stars that were beaming above ; 
But that voice on this earth can enchant me no more, 
And the passionate dreams of my young heart are o'er. 

Oh ! bright are the visions of life's morning hours. 
When earth seems an Eden of beauty and flowers ; 
And the Iris of hope sheds her light on our way — 
Ah ! we dream not how soon its gay tints will decay. 

Shine on in thy beauty ! my loved ones are gone 
To the home of the blessed — while, sad and alone, 
I wait till I'm summoned from sorrow and pain. 
To meet them in glory, nor lose them again. 



-'^^■^- 



FAEEWELL TO THE OLD YEAR. 

Stars above like gems are gleaming, 
Earth is wrapped in robes of snow, 

Joyous hearts of bliss are dreaming. 
While my tears of anguish flow. 
5* 



46 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Hark ! the midnight hour is sounding 
With a low and mournful knell, 

And its echoes whisper round me — 
'Tis the passing year's farewell. 

Oh ! how every year is stealing, 
One by one, our joys away; 

Yet it leaves no balm for healing- 
Griefs inflicted by its stay. 

How our brightest hopes have perished 1 
In one little year they've fled : 

Friends beloved, and dear ones cherished^ 
Now are sleeping with the dead. 

Another year is swiftly dawning, 

But it brings no joy to me ; 
Life must wear a garb of mourning 

When I think, my child, of thee ; 
And thine image is beside me^ 

Angel as I know thou art, 
Breathing of thy home in heaven — 

Hopes to soothe and cheer my heart. 

Then, farewell, thou year of sadness ! 

I will weep no more for thee. 
But will hail the new with gladness — 

It, perhaps, my soul may free 
From this heavy weight of sorrow 

That has long oppressed me here, 
And a brighter, happier morrow 

Dawn for me another year. 



ANGEL WHISPEES. 47 



ANGEL WHISPERS. 

The golden light of day had fled, 

And twilight's dreamy hour 
Inclined my soul to seek repose 

Within a favorite bower, 
Where oft I'd sported when a child 

With all a young heart's glee — 
Dear were its gray and moss-grown rocks. 

Its starry flowers, to me. 

'Twas at the entrance of a glen, 

Just where a tiny brook 
Came dancing o'er its pebbly bed, 

With bright and joyous look; 
Above, the interlacing vines 

A canopy had made, 
And warblers sang and flowerets bloomed 

Beneath its leafy shade. 

I gazed into the far-off depth's 

That vailed the azure sky — 
And many a bright ethereal form 

Methought I could descry. 
I heard a whispering, soft and low, 

A voice in all around. 
And soon its gentle influence 

My weary spirit found. 



48 CLARA'S POEMS. 

The rock itself reminded me 

Of that Eternal One 
Beneath whose shadow all may rest, 

When earthly hope is gone ; 
Who will a stay, a refuge prove, 

A shelter from the blast, 
A shield and fortress of defense. 

Until the storm be passed. 

The brook that murmured at my feet 

Seemed softly whispering, too. 
That I could in its crystal waves 

A beauteous emblem view 
Of that pure stream that from His side 

Came gushing, clear and free. 
In which the sin-polluted soul 

Might bathe, and spotless be. 

My heart was filled with love and praise ; 

My spirit seemed to hear 
The whisperings of the blessed ones. 

As if they hovered near — ■ 
Redeeming love was all their theme. 

And, oh ! the thrilling strain. 
No mortal formed of earthly mold 

Could ever breathe again. 

Methought I was no more on earth. 
But heavenward seemed to go. 

As rose those sweet, melodious strains. 
At first so soft and low, 



THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAtFTY. 49 

Of "glory, honor, praise and power, 

To Him, the just, be given, 
Who worthy is to be adored 

By ransomed hosts in heaven." 

But, ah ! they faded soon away. 

And my lone spirit sighs. 
Till those sweet whispering angels call 

Me home above the skies. 
Who, passing, murmur, ''Sister, wait 

Thy Lord's appointed time ; 
We soon shall come and bear thee hence 

To a far happier clime." 

'Tis long since those celestial strains 

Breathed 'round that twilight bower; 
But well I know that they will bless 

And soothe my dying hour ; 
Then, oh, my soul, no more repine, 

But kiss the chast'ning rod, 
Since thou canst kneel at such a shrine, 

And praise thy Lord and God ! 



THE WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY. 

Yes, many fair and lovely things 
Bless this bright world of ours — 

The bird that in the forest sings, 
The dew-drop on the flowers. 



50 CLARA'S POEMS. 

The morning clouds, so softly tinged, 

That round Aurora play, 
The silvery chime of distant bells 

Borne on the breeze away. 

And sweet the merry streamlet's song. 

As by the oak it winds, 
And lovely o'er the cool rock spring 

The wild rose fondly twines ; 
And, echoing through the dim old woods, 

The dove's low, plaintive moan 
Recalls sweet visions of the past, 

Ere youth's bright dream had flown. 

The glory of the western skies, 

As daylight disappears, 
When e'en the zephyr's silken wing 

Seems bathed in twilight's tears ; 
When faintly gleams the crescent moon. 

As gently, one by one. 
The stars come forth, as if rejoiced 

Our daily toils are done. 

And, oh ! how holy, calm and pure 

Is midnight's soothing spell. 
When soul with kindred soul communes. 

Though far apart they dwell ; 
And when in dreams we sink to rest. 

Fond lips are pressed to ours, 
Until we feel that life once more 

Is bright with hope's sweet flowers I 



THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 51 

Thus earth is filled with lessons pure, 

If we but read them right ; 
They breathe their sacred influence o'er 

Our souls by day and night; 
And like sweet tones from angel harps, 

On every breeze is borne — 
"Look up, thou sad and weary heart, 

Man was not made to mourn." 



THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 

As the wearied hart doth pant 

For the cool, refreshing streams, 
When nature droops and faints 

'Neath the noontide's sultry beams; 
As the withered bud and flower, 

As the grass, the fading tree, 
Wait the reviving shower, 

So I wait, Lord, for thee. 
I thirst for the living waters 

Thou hast promised with thy love. 
That I with Zion's daughters ^ 

May sing thy praise above ; 
For tears have been my portion — 

I have bowed beneath thy rod, 
While my foes, exulting, ask me, 

Ay, where is now thy God ? 



52 olaiia's poems. 

Yet I will still remember 

Thy mercy unto me — 
Through the dark night of affliction 

My song shall be of thee ; 
And thy light and truth shall guide me 

Along life's stormy road — 
My trust, my hope, is on thee, 

My Saviour and my God. 
Then, oh, my soul ! why mourning ? 

The Lord thy rock shall be ; 
Joy cometh with the morning, 

And night's dark shadows flee. 
Yet a few more years of anguish. 

And all thy cares shall cease, 
Where rest Earth's lone and weary. 

And all is joy and peace. 



WHAT IS MY NAME WHEN I AM DEAD? 

What is my name when I am dead !" 
Though wreath of laurels bind my head. 
My acts, my lineage, what are they. 
When I am sleeping in the clay ? 

My form, my features, and my lot — 
Mournful or happy — soon forgot 
Within the dark and silent gloom 
That wraps the inmate of the tomb. 



THE orphans' appeal. 53 

Yet faith can pierce the gloomy night, 
And see, beyond, a world of light ; 
To weary ones a peaceful home, 
Where sin and death shall never come. 



THE ORPHANS' APPEAL. 

DEDICATED TO THE MECHANICS OF NASHVILLE. 

O YE, whom happy children meet 

At merry eventide, 
With sparkling eyes and loving hearts 

Around your own fireside, 
Think, as you view each smiling face. 

How sad a change may come, 
When Death shall quench the light that makes 

A paradise of home. 

Perhaps those little ones you've reared 

With tender, anxious care, 
Bereft of you may wander forth 

With none to soothe or cheer. 
Then think of those poor friendless ones 

In poverty who roam, 
And let soft pity move your hearts — 

To build the Orphans' Home. 
6 



64 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Go hear the dying mother, as 

The death-damps dew her brow — 
" My fatherless, my precious ones, 

And must I leave you now, — 
Alone, unsheltered in the world ? 

Oh ! is there none will come. 
Whose heart with generous pity glows, 

And give my babes a home ?" 

Yes, we will take thy helpless lambs 

Into our quiet fold, 
And shield them from the summer's heat 

And winter's piercing cold ; 
And train them up in His commands. 

Who watches o'er them here, 
For God has made the fatherless 

His own peculiar care. 

And ye, upon whose noble toil 

Kind Providence has smiled. 
Say, will you not a portion spare 

The lonely orphan child ? 
And daily shall their grateful prayers 

Ascend to heaven's dome. 
For those whose willing hearts and hands 

Have reared the Orphans' Home. 



THE drunkard's WIFE 55 



THE DRUNKARD'S WIFE. 

SUOGESTED BY AN OCCURRENCE IN REAL LIFE. 

'Tis night, and sad and lonely, 

With none to soothe and bless, 
She is weeping o'er the wreck 

Of her blighted happiness : 
Ay, such bitter tears are flowing 

As crush the very life 
From the fond, devoted heart 

Of that pale, suffering wife. 

She is thinking of the hour 

When, in her maiden pride. 
She stood by him she idolized, 

A fair, young, smiling bride ; 
But now her pride hath perished, 

Her idol's overthrown, 
And the light of love hath faded. 

That o'er her pathway shone. 

She hath clung to him in sorrow, 

Like the ivy to the oak. 
And still more fondly twining 

As the storm-cloud o'er him broke. 



56 CLARA'S POEMS. 

But the strength that once sustained her 
Hath vanished like a dream ; 

And hope on her poor broken heart 
No more shall softly beam. 

For Intemperance has slain him, 

And her prayers and tears are vain 
To win him back to honor, 

Or break the demon's chain; 
And her heart is throbbing wildly 

With grief and anxious fear. 
For he revels with the shameless, 

While she is dying here. 

Yet, as life's sands are failing, 

She thinks of him alone. 
And pleads for hope and mercy 

For that deeply erring one. 
And the last fond words she murmured 

Were, ''May he be forgiven;" 
And in death her lips seemed whispering, 

''I'll pray for him in heaven," 



THAT ''SOFT, BROWN CURL." 5t 



THAT "SOFT, BROWN CURL." 

This little, soft, brown, silken curl 
Once kissed a pure and lofty brow. 

Where sleeps a poet's soul of fire, 

Whose thoughts in sweetest numbers flow, 

When waked by love's resistless power, 

Like dew upon the opening flower. 

His dark-blue eyes, like some still lake 
That slumbers in the forest rude, 

The impress of the cloud will take 
Amid its mountain solitude, 

Reflecting on its tranquil breast 

The azure sky, the clouds at rest. 

But love will mar that quiet sleep. 
All quivering with delight, whene'er 

Soul meets its kindred soul, and wakes 
The deep volcano slumbering there. 

And heaves with passion-throes the lake. 

Till all its waves in dimples break. 

Oh I little, soft, brown, glossy curl, 
A precious gift to me thou art; 

For every shining link is twined 

With gentle memories round my heart: 

And tears are sparkling pure and bright, 

Amid thy silken folds to-night. 
6* 



58 CLARA'S POEMS. 

For, oh 1 I'm dreaming that again 
Those eyes, so deeply, darkly blue, 

Are fondly gazing into mine, 

And vows are whispered softly too, 

As when, that calm, sweet summer even, 

This simple pledge of love was given. 



THE WOUNDED BIRD. 

The bird sits mute in her lonely bower. 

And her pleasant songs are o'er; 
For sorrow's dart hath pierced her heart, 

And she sings of love no more. 
And why are her sweet strains hushed and still. 

That were soft as the zephyr's sigh. 
And her pinions pressed to her snowy breast ? 

Oh, list, and I'll tell thee why. 

Long by "Sewanee's" crystal wave 

Had her low, sweet songs been heard, 
Till an eagle stooped from his lofty flight 

To list to the gentle bird. 
He smoothed his proud plumes, tempest tossed, 

And his radiant eye grew dim 
With the heart's rich dews, as he whispered low, 

Would she sing alone for him — 



"CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE." 59 

Would she leave her lowly bower and dare 

With him the storms of fate — 
Soar through the clouds to the sun's fierce rays, 

As the lordly eagle's mate ? 

Then her heart, long calm as her own bright stream 

Ere 'twas swept by the tempest's wing, 
Awoke to the wild, sweet dream of bliss, 

That was told by the eagle-king ; 
And glorious then were the strains they sang 

As they sprang through the fields of light, 
And his pinions strong bore the bird along. 

Till a meteor crossed their flight. 

Then the storm-king left the gentle bird, 

As he followed the dazzling train. 
To sink, with her snowy plumage soiled, 

To her simple bower again. 
And that is why, with a low, sad moan. 

She foldeth her pinions o'er 
Her stricken heart, and hideth the wound 

That will bleed forever more. 



-^'^- 



"CHATEAUX EN ESPAGNE." 

I, TOO, have dreamed ; 'neath the summer skies, 
O'erarched with hope's resplendent bow, 

Built towers of gorgeous sunset dyes; 
But soon an envious cloud of woe 



60 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Obscured those golden visions fair 
Of my heart-castles in the air. 

Yes, swiftly fled those halcyon hours, 
So bright with love's celestial ray; 

Like perfume crushed from early flowers. 
They've passed, those airy dreams, away; 

And left but mournful ruins where 

Once shone my castles in the air. 

Ay, gone those visions pure and bright — 
All, save their memory, now is dead ; 

But that still glows with radiant light. 
Though every joy of life seems fled, 

And gilds the somber clouds of care, 

That vail my castles in the air. 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1856. 

' Tis night, lone, solemn night — 
The death-night of the year. 
O'er this sin-wearied world pale silence reigns ; 
The very winds seem hushed in awe and fear ; 
Not e'en a star peers through the murky gloom, 
Nor mourner weeps a sympathizing tear 
Above the Old Year's tomb ; 
But ghosts of buried joys, wild phantoms of despair, 
Bewail his doom. 



THE CL08E OF THE YEAR 1856. 61 

With pallid brow and tear-dimmed eye, 
Pale sorrow kueels in widowed grief 

Beside his couch, and frantic asks him why 
He stole, like a base midnight thief, 

Her richest jewel — rent the golden tie 
That bound two loving hearts, and left 

Her thus alone to pine and die. 

And love, with low and plaintive sigh. 

Soft as the breathings of ^olus' lute. 
When the lone night winds, idly wandering by, 

Sweep o'er its shattered chords that all day long were 
mute, 
Implores again the loving, trusting faith 

That only one short year ago she gave 
Into his keeping, and she gently layeth 

Her wasted, bleeding heart, her blighted hopes. 
With all love's broken vows, within his grave. 

The pitying skies alone 
A snowy shroud have wept o'er earth's kind breast, 

In which to fold his aged, shivering form. 
And lay him softly with the past to rest, 
That, with the myriad years forever gone, 
Unblessing and unblest. 
He, too, may sleep forgotten and unknown. 

But can this be, Old Year ? Can we forget 
Thy varied scenes of happiness or grief — 
The hopes thou didst inspire — the bliss 



rv 



Thou o^avest — and the fond belief 



o 



62 CLARA'S POEMS. 

That brighter years would come — the deep regret 

For severed ties — the rapturous kiss 
Of friends returned — love's dream, so sweet, so brief, — 
Can these be all forgot ? All, no I 
Old Year, we'll mourn thee yet ! 

And yet, why should we ? Thou art gone 

Forever ! merged into the deep. 
Wide ocean of eternity : thou who hast borne 

Upon thy passion- waves such precious argosies of love, 
Of fame and glorious beauty, whose shattered wrecks now 
sleep 
Entombed in thine illimitable depths, alone 
Remembered by some faithful heart. 
As the sweet music of a dream 
That with the night has flown. 

But hark ! a knell is ringing on the midnight air ! 
" The Old Year is no more," 
And sad and wearily I stand, 

Like some pilgrim on the shore 
Of the vast future, waiting with patient hope until 

The "messenger" shall come and bear 
Me o'er its deep, dark waters, to that land 

Whose time is reckoned not by years, and where 
My lonely heart shall never more 
Fond memory's vigils keep 
Beside the dying year. 



time's soliloquy. 63 



TIME'S SOLILOQUY. 

Old call you me ?■ — ay, well you may, 

For I was born on Earth's natal day; 

'Mid the verdure and bloom of paradise wild, 

I gazed when the young world joyously smiled; 

I inhaled the first fragrance of Eden's bowers, 

And caught the first dew-drop that sprinkled her flowers ; 

And when her pure waters, all flashing and bright, 

Reflected the sun on their bosom of light, 

When the cataracts sent up their anthems on high. 

None heard their sweet melody then, save I. 

When the deer bounded over the hills undismayed — 
For man was not there to make them afraid — 
When the bright star of morn in its beauty arose. 
And its twin sister of eve ushered in its repose, 
Many thousands of years in their splendor did shine 
With no eye to admire or to praise them but mine. 

You say I am old — and the truth you but tell ; 

View the empires and cities that rose and that fell, 

Of them scarce a vestige, a trace, can be found — 

I was there when their first stone was laid in the ground ; 

But the seeds of decay I concealed at their birth, 

And their grandeur and glory soon crumbled to earth. 



64 CLARA'S POEMS. 

My course is still onward — unceasing my fliglit — 
I watch over man both by day and by night — 
Though they oft try to stop me, yet nothing I mind, 
I laugh at their folly, and leave them behind ; 
I dimple the cheek of the innocent child. 
And the soft lip of beauty I deck with a smile ; 
I crown her fair brow with bright tresses of gold, 
And I plant the gray hair on the head of the old. 

I'm an agent of power resistless, sublime — 

Yet who can compute the duration of Time ? 

Who can number my days till the angel shall stand, 

One foot on the sea and the other on land ? 

When the sound of the trumpet creation shall shake. 

And the dead from their long, dreamless slumbers shall 

wake — 
When the dark reign of death and of sin shall be o'er, 
And Eternity dawn — then shall Time be no more ! 



TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. 

Beneath my favorite beech-tree, in the budding, fresh 

spring-time. 
Once more I weave for thee, my friend, a wild and simple 

rhyme ; 
While the swelling buds are crimsoned with the sun's rich 

golden hue, 
The morning air is echoing with the dove's low, plaintive coo. 



TO AN ABSENT FRIEND. 65 

As Aurora's dainty fingers ope tlie pearly gates of morn, 

A gush of flute-like music upon the breeze is borne ; 

'Tis the matin hymn of nature to the God of peace and 

love, 
Up-pealing through the heaven's blue arch, so pure and 

bright above. 

The pear-tree's snowy blossoms are redolent of perfume. 
And the peach-trees in the orchard seem a cloud of rosy 

bloom; 
Each pendant leaf a diamond holds, meet for a regal brow, 
And all is fair and beautiful, — but where, my friend, art thou ? 

Are thy dark-blue eyes unclosing in that sweet southern 

clime 
Whose atmosphere is fragrant with orange and the lime ? 
Or art thou musing sadly in thy far-off ''polar home," 
Where over the broad prairies the deer and bison roam ? 

Ah, I fain would stand beside thee, on such a morn as this, 

When earth seems just created a paradise of bliss. 

When the future, bright and glowing, before thy fancy 

gleams. 
And the past, like sunset shadows, but a clouded vision 

seems. 

And yet I hope that many a sweet and pleasant trace 
Of the past will linger round thee, no time can e'er efface ; 
For with earnest hearts we're striving to attain a lofty goal, 
And our friendship here hath ever been a union of the soul. 

1 



66 Clara's poems. 

And wheresoe'er thy wanderings, north or south, may tend, 
Thy memory with the blossom and the bird will softly blend ; 
But the spring-time and the summer a dreary time will be 
Without thy presence, dearest friend — will it be thus with 

thee? 

^^ 

SUNSET ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 

'TwAS sunset on the waters, 

And the heaving billows rolled, 
In their undulating beauty. 

Like waves of liquid gold. 
And the western clouds were gleaming 

With a thousand brilliant dies. 
As if angel hands were opening 

The portals of the skies. 

My heart was filled with rapture, 

As 1 mused that quiet hour, 
And thoughts were then awakened 

Of high and holy power. 
My soul caught inspiration 

From the living fount of love. 
And I seemed to hold communion 

With angel forms above. 

I heard sweet voices singing, 

That had been silent long, 
But the soul-entrancing music 

Did not to earth belong ; 



TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 67 

And my spirit sighed to sever 

The bonds that held it here, 
And float away forever 

With those once loved so dear. 

Thus I lingered till the glories 

Of eve had faded quite, 
And the stars were mirrored singly 

In the waters deep and bright ; 
There they seemed like holy watchers, 

To guard me on my way, 
And whisper to my spirit, 

Sad mourner, hope and pray. 



TO GEORGE D. PRENTICE. 

Where the turbid, dark Missouri 

Rolls her billows to the main, 
'Mid her broad and fragrant prairies. 

Wakes my minstrel lute again ; 
And upon the wings of morning, 

With the song of bird and bee. 
One leaf fresh from memory's garland, 

Poet-King, I waft to thee. 

Soft and sweet as echoes playing 
O'er some fairy-haunted stream, 

May it gently float around thee 
Like some dim-remembered dream, 



68 Clara's poems. 

Till those memories pure and holy, 
Of thy life the dearest part, 

Wake, and breathe in thrilling numbers 
The rich music of thy heart. 

June is here again, all radiant. 

With her roses and perfume. 
And the bees are softly humming 

'Mid the honeysuckles' bloom, 
And the sunset skies are glowing 

With the same rich golden dyes 
That they wore one summer twilight, 

When we dreamed of paradise. 

Then come, when mystic shadows 

Cover all the sleeping world, 
And we'll float upon the star-beams, 

With our spirit wings unfurled, 
Far away where angel watchers 

Guard the wondrous and unknown. 
And no more on earth we'll wander. 

Weary hearted and alone. 



ji^- 



WHAT IS LOYE? 

'Tis like some deep, quiet river, 
That floweth softly on, 

The music of whose rippling 
Is like the angel's song; 



WHAT IS LOVE? G9 

Upon whose borders flourish 

The lily and the rose, 
And, sheltered by those flowers, 

The modest violet blows. 

What is love ? 
'Tis a pure and gentle blossom, 

That maketh glad the heart ; 
Its hues are bright and beautiful 

Beyond the reach of art. 
And hope and memory cherish it, 

Like dews of morn and even, 
Till abroad it sheds a fragrance 

Like the balmy breath of heaven. 

Oh ! beautiful and holy, 

This flower unrivaled stands — 
Methinks from Eden's bowers 

'Twas borne by angel hands ; 
Around the heart intwining, 

Its tendrils reach above, 
A paradise it makes on earth. 

For God himself is love. 
This is love. 



t* 



10 CLARA'S POEMS. 



EARTH IS NOT OUR HOME. 

It cannot be that earth alone 

Is our abiding place — 
That, like the foam on ocean's wave, 

We sink and leave no trace 
Of all those high and glorious thoughts 

That fill our souls with love 
For all that's pure and beautiful, 

In earth or heaven above ! 

It cannot be that we are made 

To linger here in pain, 
To feel immortal longings thrill . 

Our hearts, yet know them vain — 
To love, but never see more near. 

The stars, whose silvery light 
Reflects the glory of God's throne 

Upon the earth each night ! 

It cannot be ! Though earth is filled 

With fair and lovely things — 
With birds, and flowers, and sunny skies, 

Green woods, and gushing springs, 
And true and loving hearts, that make. 

A paradise below — 
Yet, 'mid our sweetest, purest joys. 

Death aims his fatal blow. 



'twas but a dream. tl 

Ah, no ! this earth can never be 

A dwelling for the soul ; 
It longs to soar away through space, 

Where myriad planets roll, — 
For only where the Eternal reigns, 

'Mid radiant worlds of light, 
Where streams of knowledge ever flow, 

Will the spirit stay its flight. 



^^- 



'TWAS BUT A DREAM. 

" Sweet vision of my sweetest dreams, 
In dream-like beauty pass away." — Amfxia. 

'TwAS but a dream — a sweet, wild dream- 

A vision false as vain — 
Yet, oh I what would my sad heart give 

To dream it o'er again ! 
'Twas but a dream, and yet thy voice. 

Like low, sweet music, still 
Yibrates along my spirit chords 

With soft, melodious thrill. 

I strive to smile, and oft appear 

From care and sorrow free, 
But deep within my soul is shrined 

A mournful dream of thee. 



'72 Clara's poems. 

Oh I why didst thou my palsied heart 
From its long slumber wake 

To love, and hope, and joy once more, 
Then leave it thus to break ? 

But, fare thee well ! the dream is past, 

And I am now alone — 
For never can another win 

The heart still all thine own. 
I only ask, in future years, 

When others smile for thee, 
Thou wilt recall our sad, sweet dream, 

And give one sigh to me. 



A SUMMER SABBATH MORN. 

How calm, how bright the Sabbath morn I 
The dewdrops glisten on the lawn 
Like jewels rare, while, 'mid the trees, 
Comes the low, wailing, autumn breeze ; 
The little birds their anthems raise ; 
All nature seems to hymn the praise 
Of Him who all his creatures blessed, 
And bade them on the Sabbath rest. 
Yon snowy clouds, slow floating through 
Heaven's high vault of azure blue, 
Seem angel watchers, listening there. 
To hear earth's Sabbath morning prayer ! 



LET ME DIE AT HOME. 73 



LET ME DIE AT HOME. 

SUGGESTED BY A CONA^ERSATION AVITH REV. MR. C. AND LADY, CNR 
EVENING, ON BOARD THE STEAMER . 

Let me die at home ; let me sink to rest 
Where first I reposed on my mother's breast, 
With the friends I have left in this world of gloom, 
To bear me with tears and sighs to the tomb. 
And lay me down where my woes shall cease, 
And say, sweet sister, sleep in peace. 
Here, where no pain or grief can come. 
Let me die with my friends — let me die at home ! 

Let me die at home in the sweet spring-time, 
When the birds and bees make their pleasant chime, 
And the balmy breeze, with its rich perfume, 
Comes stealing into my darkened room, 
Bringing sweet dreams of my youthful hours, 
When careless I wandered amid its flowers, 
And learned in each sunny nook to find 
The violets blue in my hair to bind. 
And watched the brook, with its silvery foam. 
Dancing along by my childhood's home ! 

Let me die at eve, when the sun's last rays 
Are fading away, and the hymn of praise 
Is rising from every roof and tree, 
And the evening star seems to wait for me. 



t4 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And loved ones are near in the calm twilight- 
Oh, then let my spirit take its flight ! 
Like the wearied dove, no more to roam, 
I would fold my wings and die at home ! 



COME TO MY GRAVE. 

Come to my grave, when I shall rest 

From all life's cares forever ! 
When the ties that bound us here are rent, 

Which death alone could sever I 

Come, when around my lowly bed 
The flowers I love are springing; 

And when a requiem, soft and low. 
The birds are sweetly singing. 

Think how I loved with thee to stray 
'Mid nature's scenes of gladness ; 

But, then, to thee I know they'll wear 
A tinge of grief and sadness ! 

Then come, when o'er me softly fall 

The twilight dews of even ; 
And when the stars look gently down 

Like angel eyes from heaven. 



THE exile's memory OF HOME. 75 

Let memory then recall to mind 

The sacred vows we've plighted — 
The bygone scenes of early bliss, 

Which death alone has blighted ! 

Then kneel and pray, as oft we've prayed, 

And strength will still be given. 
By Him who is the mourner's friend, 

Till we shall meet in heaven I 



THE EXILE'S MEMORY OF HOME. 

I AM lonely and sad, yet a beautiful throng 
Of strangers are round me with music and song, 
And fairy-like forms in their loveliness glide. 
With eyes beaming gladness and hope, by my side. 

Yet I'm lonely and sad 'mid the young and the gay. 
For I think when I too joined their frolicsome play, 
With spirits as light — and the song and the jest 
An echo still find in my desolate breast. 

And I muse on the loved and the lost that are gone, 
Who have left me to weep in my sorrow alone ; 
Their smiles of affection can soothe me no more. 
For the hopes of my young heart forever are o'er. 

\ 



16 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Oh I how vividly memory brings back my youth, 
When my path was all sunshine, the world was all truth ; 
But false was its promise, its bright hues are fled, 
And my friends and my country now sleep with the dead ! 

As I list to the song, it recalls those blest hours 
When fearless I sang in my own native bowers ; 
Now those bowers are faded, and long, long ago, 
The hand of the spoiler my home hath laid low. 

And I wander an exile, and never again 

Shall I see my loved valley far over the main ; 

Yet 'tis graved on my heart, and my last prayer shall be, 

That God, in his mercy, my country may free. 



TO MS. MARY L G S, 

OF VALHERMOSA SPRINGS. 

Dear lady, when in future years, 

Though clouds of sorrow intervene, 
I strive to trace through misty tears 

The beauty of this sylvan scene — 
Oft as the low winds whispering sigh. 

Like music's soft, bewild'ring strain- 
When faint the lingering echoes die, 

I'll dream of thy sweet voice again. 



love's memories. It 

Dream of thy valley home so green, 

Whose towering mountains pierce the sky; 
Where silvery fountains ceaseless play 

In cadence with the zephyr's sigh ; 
Where dwell thy loved, thy cherished ones, 

Who make life's sunshine everywhere. 
Ay ! oft my heart will fondly turn 

To this sweet, smiling Eden fair. 

Oh 1 never may the serpent come 

To blight thy paradise of love ; 
But happier in thy peaceful home 

May each revolving year still prove ; 
And thus, with music, mirth, and song, 

May'st thou and all thy precious band 
Move sweetly on, a love-linked throng, . 

Till safe within God's holy land. 



' LOVE'S MEMORIES. 

I'm thinking of my first, pure love, 

My earliest dream of youth. 
When every thought of my young heart 

Was innocence and truth ; 
When looks, more eloquent than words, 

From dear eyes glanced to mine ; 
Then e'en a sigh my spirit thrilled. 

With ecstasy divine. 
8 



18 CLARA'S POEMS. 

I'm thinking of the hour when fate 

Dissolved this dream so sweet, 
And severed two fond hearts, that ne'er 

Again on earth shall meet; 
And ever since my soul hath been 

A sad and mournful thing, 
A lonely dove, without her mate, 

Forever on the wing. 

I'm thinking how, in after-years, 

A new love strove to breathe 
A warmth into this icy heart, 

Round which such memories wreathe. 
But all in vain — the sun may shine 

Upon the dreary tomb. 
But not one ray can penetrate 

Its dark and silent gloom. 

And I'm thinking of the hour when this 

Lone spirit shall be free. 
To soar away through boundless space. 

And meet, dear one, with thee. 
And, oh ! if there's superior bliss 

To ransomed spirits given, 
It must be when two kindred souls 

Thus reunite in heaven. 



TUB DEATH OF HOPE. 79 



SONNET TO SLEEP. 

Come, thou white- winged angel, gentle Sleep, 

Press thy cool fingers on my tear-stained lids, 
Each wearied sense in soft ol)]ivion steep, 

Oh, give the rest my sorrow still forbids 1 
Come, with thy crimson poppy-juice, and bathe 

My throbbing, care-worn brow ; 
Ope the rose-tinted, pearly gate of dreams, 

And let my weary spirit enter now. 
Come, fold thy pinions softly round ray soul. 

And waft it to some bright and happier sphere, 
To meet and mingle for a moment with 

Its kindred, who are blest and smiling there, 
Waiting with song and harp to welcome me. 

When death shall close my simple history here. 



THE DEATH OF HOPE. 

SUGGESTKD BY AN ENGHAVINO. 

I HAVE waited for thy coming. 

Through the summer's dreamy hours. 

When the air was filled with music 
And the earth was bright with flowers. 



80 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And though I wept in sorrow 

When the day was past and gone, 

Hope sang, "He'll come to-morrow," 
And my heart still trusted on. 

But the summer roses faded, 

And the autumn's golden grain 
Waved ready for the reapers, 

And yet I looked in vain, 
Till mine eyes grew dim with watching, 

My cheek with anguish pale ; 
Yet Hope still softly whispered, 

"Trust on — he will not fail !" 

When first our vows were plighted, 

'Twas beneath a starry sky, 
And their radiant luster trembled 

In the clear waves gliding by. 
Ah I could I dream that ever 

Thy love would prove untrue. 
As the star gleams on the water — 

As false and fleeting too ! 

Now the wintry winds are sighing 

Through the forests bleak and drear, 
And Hope's sweet song is dying, 

While I wait thy coming here — 
Here, where the spring's first blossoms 

Breathe around their soft perfume, 
Shouldst thou ever come to seek me, 

Thou'lt find my lowly tomb. 




::S£, SAKTAIl/^PHlLAL 



C^^A^J<!€^^^■^-^'Yr/ifJ^^ '^//f^f i'J 



'^^^^ 



/^Z^^^,et / , 



I AM WEARY. 81 



M' 



I AM WEARY. 

Bird's Nest Cottage, Nashville. 
'Y DEAR FRIEND: — 'Tis a glorious night! so calm, so clear, 
so radiantly beautiful, that to sleep is quite impossible. I 
can only sit here in my lonely little sanctum, gaze up into the blue, 
o'erarching heavens, and dream, and sigh for wings, that I may soar 
away and explore those worlds on worlds of mystic light —the won- 
drous works of the "grand Architect" of the universe — and unite in 
that never-ceasing hymn of praise, inaudible, save to the Christian 
poet's ear. 

Oh! how oft, on such a night as this, does my soul long to cast 
aside the fetters that ever bind and chain her down to the dull, cold 
realities of earth, until, methinks, the task were an easy one 'to lay 
down life's heavy burden and be at rest forever! And sometimes 

I AM weary — oh, so weary ! — 

Of the daily toil and strife 
That is slowly, surely wearing 

Out the vital springs of life, 
That ofttimes I'd fain be lying 

Where earth's tired pilgrims rest, 
And my heart no more be sighing 

With its secret woe oppressed. 

Day by day my joys are going; 

Death has taken nearly all ; 
Yet, above the dark waves roaring, 

Oft I hear sweet voices call, 
8* 



82 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And I watch afar the gleaming 
Of their angel pinions bright, 

That are softly o'er me beaming 
In the starry heavens to-night. 

And they whisper, low and gentle 

As the sighing breeze, to me : 
"Hope on, pale and silent watcher, 

We are evermore with thee ; 
As the moonbeams vail thee softly 

With their pure and holy light, 
So we fold our pinions o'er thee, 

In the lonely hours of night." 



THINK OF ME. 

" As sings the swan with parting breath, 
So I to thee." — Festus. 

When twilight tears are sparkling 
On blossom, leaf, and stem. 

Wreathing night's ebon tresses 
With a jeweled diadem ; 

When pale, sweet Luna's glancing 
At her image in the sea. 

Where the tiny waves are dancing- 
Dear Henry, think of me ! 



THINK OF ME. 83 

When ill the midnight heavens 

Thy star, bright Sirius, beams, 
And mine, that's close beside it, 

With paler luster gleams ; 
When the zephyr's faint, low whisper 

Through the quivering aspen-tree 
Scarce sways its silvery leaflets — 

Dear Henry, think of me ! 

When the dark-blue eyes are closing 

Their fringed lids to sleep. 
And the weary world's reposing, 

Then our spirit-tryst we'll keep — 
In the mystic dream-land bowers 

Our souls shall wander free ; 
Thou shalt twine my harp with flowers 

While, I sing of hope to thee. 

For I know that years will crown thee 

With the laureled wreath of fame. 
That with the wisest, noblest. 

Shall be found thine honored name ; 
Then, oh, when all are praising, 

And fond ones smile for thee, 
Amid them all, dear Henry, 

Keep one sweet thought for me ! 



84 Clara's poems. 



LINES 

SENT WITH A WITHERED LEAF. 

I SEND thee a leaf from the mountain, 

Where it grew on a stately tree 
That overshadowed a silvery fountain, 

Where oft I sat musing of thee : 
And though long since its beauty has faded, 

Like mine, yet 'twill waken a thrill 
Of delight in thy bosom, when breathing 

The fragrance that clings round it still. 

For the birds 'mid the green branches nestled. 

And sung, as the sweet blossoms grew ; 
And the wandering breeze kissed this leaflet, 

But left its perfume here for you : 
And ofttimes at eve, when the moonbeams, 

With the stars, seemed to dance to its chime, 
Have I sat by this cool mossy fountain. 

And dreamed of the dear olden time. 

But, ah I could I send you the music 

That thrilled me each long summer day, 
When the fount and the birdies were singing 

To the wind-harps a sweet roundelay. 
Oh, 'twould soothe thee when lonely and weary, 

Like hope's soul-entrancing refrain, 
Till the past would come floating around thee, 

With the voice of the old time again ! 



WHAT IS MASONRY ^ 85 



WHAT IS :\IASOXRY? 

Tis a light that illumes the dark places of earth, 

That brings joy and relief to the desolate hearth, 

Makes the heart of the widow and orphan rejoice, 

And their weeping to cease, when they hear the kind voice 

Of the gentle Samaritan passing along, 

Who turns not aside with the gay careless throng, 

But hastens with zeal their wrongs to redress, 

To bind up their wounds and soothe their distress. 

'Tis a center of union to strangers afar, 
Where all may unite on the level and square ; 
A fountain of love, where in sympathy sweet 
The Jew and the Gentile each other may greet, 
Where with brotherly kindness is welcomed each guest 
With an outstretched arm and a faithful breast ; 
While wisdom, and strength, and beauty combine, 
And with faith, hope, and charity make it divine. 

Oh! lovely and pure as an angel of light. — 

See, Masonry smiles away sorrow's dark night ! 

When the heart of the father is sinking with dread, 

As his loved ones weep sadly around his death-bed. 

And his pale lips are murmuring, in anguish and fear, 

" Who will soothe my lone widow, my poor orphans cheer ?" 



86 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Then a brother breathes softly, " Grieve not, they shall be 
Precious jewels, protected and cherished by me." 
A pledge then is given, to strangers unknown, 
And he smiles, for he feels they will not be alone. 

Then hail to the Order, mysterious, yet free I 
May its star blaze effulgent o'er life's troubled sea, 
Guiding the tempest-tost mariner home. 
Where only the tried and the trusty may come. 
Well polished and bright, in the temple, to prove 
They 're united by friendship, affection, and love ; 
Thus showing their mission on earth is to bless 
The afflicted, and shield them from care and distress. 



-^^'^- 



TO MRS. CHASE, 

THE HEROIN K OF TAMP ICO. 

We are strangers, gentle lady. 

Yet I 've thought of thee for years, 
And thy deeds of noble daring 

Hath moved me oft to tears. 
Thou, who didst stand undaunted, 

Our banner in thy hand. 
When strong men paled with terror 

Before a murderous band. 

Oft in fancy I 've beheld thee 
As, with a flashing eye, 



TO MRS. CHASE. 8*7 

Our flag thou gavest to the breeze, 

Beneath a foreign sky ; 
And proudly rang thy silvery tones 

Far over land and sea, 
"Behold! Columbia's eagle guards 

The stars of liberty ! 

"Come, rally 'neath its azure folds! 

None dare molest us here ; 
And surely none but cowards blanch 

When woman feels no fear. 
Float high, ye glorious stars and stripes, 

Outblaze Tampico's sun ; 
Bright emblem of the mighty land 

That boasts a Washington." 

Dear lady, years have passed since then ; 

But I am told e'en now 
Thy sparkling glance is still undimmed. 

Though on thy noble brow 
The silvery threads are mingling with 

Each dark and glossy braid, 
Intwined with gentle matron grace 

Around thy classic head. 

Oh ! may some nobler lyre than mine 

Sing paeans to thy name. 
Emblazoned with a nation's pride, 

Upon the scroll of fame. 



88 CLARA'S POEMS. 

That wheresoe'er our banner waves, 
At home or on the sea, 

The Heroine of Tampico 
May loved and honored be. 



LINES 

DEDICATED TO THE "CHATHAM ARTILLERY," OF SAVANNAH, GA, 

We met ye not as strangers, 

But as brothers, tried and true. 
And felt, amid all dangers, 

We'd a host of friends in you. 
We knew the gallant soldier's breast 

Was honor's richest shrine. 
And gentle hands in every crest 

Would fain a laurel twine. 

Ye have proud and glorious trophies,* — 

For which our fathers died ; 
Oh I guard them as ye would our stars, 

Or perish by their side ; 
And ne'er those priceless treasures yield, 

Or stain those laurels bright — 
Be ever first upon the field. 

The foremost in the fight. 



* The guns taken at Yorktown, and presented to them by General 
Washinston. 



REPLY TO THE PRECEDING. SO 

But uow we part. Brave strangers, 

Friends, brothers — fare ye well ! 
Yet like sweet music in our hearts 

Your memory long shall dwell. 
And well we know, should foes e'er dare 

Invade Columbia's shore, 
Their bloodiest welcome would be where 

The Chathams' cannons roar. 



REPLY TO THE PRECEDING. 

BY AN llONOKARY MEMBEll OF THE CHATHAM AllTILL'.aiY 

Yes, lady, yes ; when the battle's roar 

Doth shake the bloody field — 
When brave men lie bathed in their gore 

And scorn to fly or yield, 
The magic of those radiant eyes, 

Which cheered us on our way, 
Will once again before us rise 

And nerve us to the fray. 

The rage of conflict still may swell, 

And fret the troubled air, 
And ev'ry shot may toll the knell 

Of those who still will dare 
9 



90 CLARA'S POEMS. 

The battle's fiercest rage ; yet still 
No perils daunt the brave, 

Who, feeling all of beauty's thrill, 
Defy, ay, e'en the grave. 

And when the fated time may call 

Our comrades to the strife. 
Oh, deem not danger e'er can pall 

Our courage ; or that life 
Could e'er seem precious, while we see 

The trophies of that day 
Which told our fathers '' Ye are free — 

Dispute it he who may." 

Oh, lady, may the time be far 

Which e'er may see a band. 
In all the grim array of war. 

Break o'er our happy land ; 
But should it come, in arms we stand, 

To battle for our sod — 
A freeman's rights — our native land — 

Our country, and our God. 



LINES. 91 



LINES 



ON THE DEATH OF A STRANGER WHOSE GRAVE WAS MADE UPON THE 
SUMMIT OF GRAND TOWER, ON THE MlSSISSim. 

The stranger's heart was sad as he spoke, — 

*"Tis a mournful thing to die, 
Afar from my own green mountain home 

Where the bones of my fathers lie. 

"And yet I must die, and my form be laid 
By the darkly rolling wave — 
I must sleep by the vast and mighty flood 
Where De Soto* found a grave. 

''I must die far away in the distant land, 
Where no friend of my youth shall come 
To deck my grave with the flowers I love, 
Or weep o'er my early doom. 

"I must die far away, while loved ones look s 

And wish my return in vain ; 
But I shall behold their sweet smiles no more, 
Nor hear their glad greetings again. 

" I must die far away, and my last faint sigh 
Reach only a stranger's ear, 
And not even one dear friend be nigh 
To shed o'er my corse a tear. 



* De Soto was buried hy his soldiers at midnight, in the waters of 
the Mississippi. 



92 CLARA'S POEMS. 

"And yet, oh ! liow sweet, at this solemn hour. 
Is the hope that Christ hath given. 
Though friends on earth for awhile must part, 
They all can meet in heaven ! 

"Then make my grave on this lonely rock 
That towers above the stream, 
With my face to my own dear mountain home. 
And where rests the first sunbeam." 

And there he sleeps — and the sweet wild flowers 

Of spring shed their earliest bloom, 
And the bright-plumed birds and the murm'ring waves 

Breathe a requiem o'er his tomb. 



-*#- 



A MOTHER/ S LAMENT. 

INSCRIBKT) TO MRS , ON THE UEPAKTURR OF HE 11 SON FOR 

CALIFORNIA. 

Thou art gone, my dear and only son. 

From thy childhood's pleasant home — 
From thy father's care and thy mother's love, 

In a distant land to roam. 
Ay, gone to brave its heat and cold. 

Its glittering wealth to find ; 
But far more precious than gems or gold 

Is the love thou hast left behind. 



A mother's lament. 93 

My flowers are blooming fresh aud sweet — 

'Twas thy hand that planted them ; 
And each tiny bud is dearer far 

To me than a sparkling gem. 
And thy treasured image so oft is bedewed 

With my tears, that thy sisters say, 
^'Oh, mother dear! I know you will weep, 

And kiss our brother away." 

I miss thee at eve, when thy merry voice 

Was mingled in boyish glee 
With thy little sisters ; and memory then 

Brings back its glad tones to me. 
And sadly I gaze on the vesper star, 

As it shines in the glowing west. 
And think that it beams on my wanderer now, 

As he sinks to his lonely rest. 

When the night- wind sighs around thy tent, 

On the prairie vast aud lone. 
Wilt thou fancy thy mother's prayers are blent 

With its sweet and solemn tone ? 
And oh ! wilt thou not in dreams by night — 

Thy toilsome day's march o'er — 
Return, with a spirit buoyant and light, 

To the cottage home once more ? 

Should vice e^er lure tliy steps aside. 

In forbidden paths to rove. 
Recall thy father's fervent prayers, 

And thy mother's ceaseless love. 
9* 



94 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And look on onr parting gift, my son, 

And a holy spell 'twill be, 
To keep, 'mid the wild and reckless throng, 

Thy sonl unstained and free. 

How fondly I dwell on thy last sweet words, 

"Dear mother, though part we must, 
Fear not for me, while life remains, 

In God shall be my trust." 
And this shall soothe my heart, although 

With grief 'tis almost riven, 
To know, if parted here on earth, 

We'll meet, my son, in heaven. 



LONELINESS OP HEART. 

'•My soul is dark." — Byrox. 

I AM alone — our last farewell is spoken ; 

Henceforth no heart shall fondly thrill to mine ; 
The last sweet tie that bound my soul is broken — 

A lonely wanderer evermore I'll pine. 
How I have loved thee ! can I e'er forget thee ? 

Will my soul's anguish ever, ever cease ? 
Can years restore my spirit's buoyant lightness. 

Or my sad heart again feel joy and peace? 

I'm like a weed that's drifting on the ocean, 
To every wind and wave a helpless prey; 



A BETTER WOKT,D. 95 

My nights are sleepless, tears m}^ only solace, 
No love to cheer me through the weary day, 

No eye that beams with pure and fond devotion, 
No voice that breathes affection's sweetest tone, 

No hand to clasp in mine with warm emotion — 
God help me, for I am indeed alone ! 

Ah! I have loved thee all too deeply, wildly; 

Too bright the dream thus idly to pass by; 
I cannot tear thine image from my heart so lightly ! 

Oh ! would that I could lay me down and die. 
Then, only then, my heart can cease to mourn thee ; 

The grave alone its quiet can restore ; 
Disperse the gloom that now, alas ! enfolds me, 

Then I shall sing of blighted hopes no more. 



-^^- 



A BETTER WORLD. 

There is another, better world, 

Beyond this world of ours. 
Whose crystal streams in beauty glide 

Amid immortal flowers. 
'Tis there I hope to meet with all 

I've loved and lost below; 
Where pain and anguish ne'er again 

Shall cause my tears to flow. 

This aching brow no more shall throb 
With wild and anxious thought; 



9f) Clara's poems. 

The pangs of unrequited love 

Or friendship be forgot. 
And never more this weary heart 

Shall sigh itself to rest ; 
For the woes of life no entrance find 

In the mansions of the blest. 

Oh ! how my spirit sighs for those 

Sweet flowers and living streams — 
To hear the music of those harps 

I seem to hear in dreams ! 
Oh ! can it be that some loved one — 

When weary and depressed 
I lay me down — is sent to soothe 

My troubled soul to rest ? — 

And tell me of that deathless love 

That still survives the tomb ; 
That, 'mid that bright and happy band, 

For me there still is room ! 
For me a golden harp is tuned. 

For me a crown prepared — 
Oh ! why should 1 then murmur, when 

For me there's such reward ! 

Then grant, gracious Lord, my prayer, 

That I may be resigned, 
To bear whatever earthly care 

Thou hast to me assigned. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN PIERCE 9t 

And though fond hearts, by death's cold hand, 

From mine are rudely riven, 
Yet soon I'll meet, to part no more, 

With those I love in heaven. 



LINES ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN, ONLY SON OF GEN. 
AND MRS. PIERCE. 

KESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO HIS SORROWING MOTHER RY A SIN- 
CERE BUT UNKNOWN FRIEND. 

Dear lady, in thy sad bereavement 

Many fain would sympathize, 
But a mother's heart can only 

Feel thy soul's deep agonies, 
And thy wild desparing sorrow 

She alone can realize. 

Did no warning spirit whisper 

To thy soul, that fatal morn, 
When he kissed thee and caressed thee, 

'' Soon he shall be from thee torn, 
And o'er him, thy fond heart's idol. 

Thou in frantic grief shalt mourn"? 

Yet mourn not — thy blessed Saviour 

Hath recalled thy darling now. 
Ere a stain of earth could linger 

On his fair and sinless brow ; 
And lovelier still thou shalt receive him : 

Then in meek submission bow! 



98 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Thou hast yet a holy iiiission, 

Bearing half thy husband's cares, 

For his grief is strong and mighty — 
Man's heart breaks, but woman's bears ; 

And thine anguish will be lessened 
If thy grief another shares. 

Think not of thy loved one lying ' 

In the cold grave all alone, 
But the white-robed cherubs joining 

With the hosts around God's throne, 
Chanting songs of adoration 

To the Great Eternal One. 

Then softly lay him down to slumber, 
With the green turf on his breast, 

Where birds may sing and flowerets blossom 
O'er his quiet place of rest. 

And the sun's last rays may linger, 
Ere he fades within the west. 

Saved by Him who said in mercy — 
"Let thy little children come 

To the Father's mansion holy, 

There they find a heavenly home,'* 

There shalt thou regain thy lost one. 
Where no death or partings come. 



TO WILLIE S. H S. 99 



TO WILLIE S. H S. 

Dear Willie, as the moonbeams come rippling soft and 

sweet. 
In long glittering waves of silver, and lie quivering at mj 

feet;, 
While through my " sanctum" casement the night winds 

gently creep, 
My soul goes forth in dream-land, although I'm not 

asleep. 

For oh ! I'm dreaming, Willie, in some holier, happier 

sphere. 
How sweet 'twill be to meet with those we've loved so 

fondly here, 

And form a bright ''home-circle" earth's sorrow cannot 

mar, 
And perhaps it may be, Willie, in our favorite evening 

star. 

For there, 'tis said, the flowers fade not in summer time, 
And the nectar-bubbling fountains sing a low and pleasant 

rhyme. 
Where the beautiful live ever, and death lies dreaming too, 
And from the iris-tinted heavens the stars weep golden 

dew. 



100 Clara's poems. 

There, too, dwells that radiant spirit, who breathes her 

soul of song 
Into some pure and loving heart, that, 'mid the earth-born 

throng, 
Sighs forth a low, sweet mus^c, like the sea-shell's gentle 

moan, 
Until some kindred bosom thrills responsive to her own. 

Yet I know this world, dear Willie, is still beautiful to 

you, 
Whose young aspiring genius, with an aim so pure and 

true. 
Is soaring like the eagle, to the zenith heights of fame, 
To write in glorious characters a great and deathless name. 

You have not lived, dear Willie, and I trust you never 

may, 
To see your hopes when fairest, like mine, in turn decay, 
Till life hath lost its brightness, its beauty and its bloom. 
And my very heart seems withering with my loved ones in 

the tomb. 

'Tis a glorious night, dear Willie, a night that should in- 
spire 
The poet's soul with ecstasy, and wake his sleeping lyre, 
Till in the midnight heavens the thrilling notes resound. 
And star-winged angels pause to hear the soft melodious 
sound. 



REPLY TO THE "INVITATION" OF QUIEN SABE. 10 1 

And, Willie, when in after-years that mournful hour shall 

come, 
And the friends we love, with many tears, be softly gathered 

home, 
'Twill soothe our grief, dear Willie, to know in some bright 

sphere 
We'll form our own home-circle again with those most 

dear. 



REPLY TO THE " INVITATION" OF UUIEN SABE. 

When the purple mists of twilight fold 

The weary earth in their kind embrace ; 
When the moon smiles down from her azure throne, 

In the sparkling waves, at her own sweet face ; 
When the midnight stars keep their tireless watch 

O'er a slumbering world, and our thoughts roam free. 
My soul goes forth in the soft love-light 

To hold a tryst, dear friend, with thee. 

Oh ! yes, when the mountain breeze sighs low, 

And the gentle rose bends down to weep, 
And the lily folds in her velvet cup 

The dainty butterfly, fast asleep ; 
When the song of the silvery tinkling rill 

Brings many a dream of the past to me, 
My spirit floats through the starry night 

Like a wreath of mist, dear friend, to thee. 

10 



102 CLARA'S POEMF. 



HOURS OF SADNESS. 

I GAZE upon the silent stars, 

As pure and beautiful they shine, 
And wonder if they see to-night 

Another heart as sad as mine ; 
I hear the dew-gem'd blossoms sigh, 

And perfumed kisses softly fling 
, To the light zephyr passing by, 

Who brushed them with his silken wing. 

The breeze amid the latticed vines 

Comes with the moonbeams pale and sweet, 
And in long waving silvery lines 

Weaves rich mosaics at my feet ; 
The little birds, too, 'neath the leaves. 

With softly folded pinions sleep, 
While I within our vine-clad bower 

Once more a lonely vigil keep. 

The weary-hearted world is still. 

With all its busy cares, at last. 
And o'er my harp-strings wild and shrill 

Sweep mournful memories of the Past — 
Of many a dear departed one, 

Of many a softly whispered vow. 
Breathed in some low, sweet, loving tone, 

Whose music murmurs round me now. 



A DIRGE. 103 

Alas ! my soul is sad to-night — 

Mine eyes are dimmed with burning tears, 

For Memory, in her rapid flight, 

Hath oped the grave of buried years ; 

And many a pale sweet phantom stands 
Beside me whispering as I weep — 

Close up the Past with iron bands, 

'TiS BETTER WE FORGET IN SLEEP ! 



-PM- 



A DIRGE. 

WRITTEN after attending the funeral ceremonies of George G. 
Poindexter, at the First Baptist Church, Sunday, November 
the 20th, 1859. 

Breathe soft and low, ye autumn winds, 

A dirge for the noble dead — 
For the brave young heart that perished ere 

The bloom of youth had fled ! 
Sigh for a darkened household's pride — 

For a brother's tearless woe, 
A fair young maiden's dream of love. 

All crushed by this cruel blow. 

He fell, not by lingering, slow decay, 

In the first sweet morn of life, 
But swift as the lightning's lurid ray, 

The victim of party strife. 



104 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Then a requiem sing; for the gifted one, 
The young heart, pure and warm, 

Once glowing with honor, truth, and love, 
Lies cold, in this shattered form. 

And lay him to rest by the murmuring wave. 

Where he ever loved to dwell ; 
Plant the flowers of hope upon his grave, 

The laurel and asphodel ; 
Where the violet pale and the dewy rose 

May breathe their first perfume, 
And bright-winged birds the earliest sing 

A requiem o'er his tomb. 



THE OLD CHURCH. 

THOUGHTS suggested by the last sermon of Rev. Jesse B. Fer- 
guson, in the Old Christian Church, Nashville, Tennessee, 
May the 22d, 1852. 

Yes, dear old house of worship, we leave thee with regret, 
For a thousand precious memories are clinging round thee 

yet, 
Of kind familiar faces, who every Sabbath morn 
Smiled a welcome as we entered thy portals old and worn ; 
And whose sweet voices ever seem softly murm'ring there, 
Filling thy graceful arches with melody and prayer. 



THE OLD CHURCH. 105 

Ah ! our hearts will foncll}^ cherish those pleasant scenes of 

yore, 
Where loved ones met to worship, who can meet on earth 

no more ; 
And thou, old house, wilt ever be to us a hallowed spot. 
For those who smiled upon us here can never be forgot. 

How oft within thy dusky walls the words of love and truth 
Have fallen, like the gentle rain, upon the heart of youth. 
From the lips of hoary wisdom and manhood in his prime. 
Whose blessed influence will be felt by souls in future time. 
And hearts with sorrow broken obeyed the Gospel call, — 
When assured there was redemption and mercy for them all ! 
And young and aged sinners, with tears of glad surprise. 
Offered here a contrite spirit, God's sweetest sacrifice. 
And many that are sleeping now beneath the dewy sod. 
First sought their soul's salvation in this dear old house of 
God. 

Then, farewell, dear old Temple, where, in my youthful 

days, 
I've joined with many passed away in sweetest songs of 

praise, 
And my young spirit softly received its impress there, 
As I bowed in deep humility, in penitence and prayer. 
And partook with chastened heart of the hallowed bread 

and wine. 
The emblem of our Master's death, the strange and mystic 

sign, 

10* 



106 CLARA'S POEMS. 

That should unite us here on earth in sympathy and love, 
Until we meet together in one family above, 
And clasp again those links of love, by death and sorrow- 
riven, 
In the glorious Temple of our God, Eternal in the -Heavens. 



'^M - 



FIRST LOVE. 

oil, there's nothing half so sweet in life as love's y<iuug dream. — Moork. 

My first love, and my dearest. 

Thy name awakens still 
The scenes of other days that make 

This heart with rapture thrill ! 
For though long years have passed away 

Since on thy noble brow 
I've gazed, yet still in memory's glass 

The same I view thee now. 
Unchanged that soft and pleading glance 

From those dark eyes of thine ; 
Those thrilling words again I hear — 

''Say, love, wilt thou be mine?" 
And oh, thy form is ne'er forgot, 

Thy bland and winning grace, — 
Oh, no ! — 'tis graved upon my heart, 

And time cannot erase 
One look of thine, in those sweet hours. 

From care and sorrow free, 



EIGHTEEN TO-DAY. 107 

When hope had strewed our way with flowers, 

And thou wert all to me. 
And though I've passed through varied scenes, 

And sad has been my lot, 
Yet the memory of my early love 

Has never been forgot. 
Though some may say that second love 

Hath more of strength and truth, 
Yet give to me, undimmed by tears. 

My first sweet dream of youth ! 



-p^m- 



EIGHTEEN TO-DAY! 

WRITTEN ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF MISS SHE MARCH. 

Have you seen our darling "Susie," 

With her sweet and winning way ? 
Guard your heart, or you will lose it, 

For she's just "eighteen" to-day. 
Soft black eyes with mischief flashing, 

Glossy locks of raven hue, 
Rose-bud lips with pearl-like petals. 

Such has dear bewitching "Sue." 

If you have, I know you'll love her, 
For she's gentle, kind, and true ; 

And you'll think her smiles the sweetest. 
If she'll only smile for you. 



108 Clara's poems. 

Yet, sometimes she '11 tease you sadly, 
In her mirth-provoking way — 

But she 's young, you must remember, 
Only just ''eighteen " to-day. 

With a heart so pure and trusting, 

Still untouched by grief or care — 
Ah ! we tremble lest a shadow 

Rest upon a brow so fair : 
For she is the sweetest, dearest 

Little witch you ever knew — 
And we pray that Heaven may bless her, 

Our kind, merry darling "Sue." 



-U'-^- 



IMPROMPTU. 

DEA.R MR P : A friend presented me to-day with the Jour- 
nals containing the beautiful poems of "Alice" and "Henrie," 
and your exquisite reply to the former. Will you permit me to add 
one more leaf to the glorious garland that already encircles your 
brow — simple, 'tis true, but "pure and ever-living?" 

Oh, the wine-cup gleams with a ruby light. 

And rich is the sunset's glow ; 
Yet the last soon fades in the gloom of night, 

And the other in darker woe : 



IMPROMPTU. 109 

And the glorious tints of tlie ''cloud-land shore," 

And the palace of ''pearl and fire," 
With the murmuring sea and the "silver beach," 

Are dreams that with morn — expire. 

What though in the festal halls of wealth 

Have gathered the fair and proud ; 
The miser-world to its idol — gold 

Has ever the lowliest bowed ! 
And thou may'st smile with the careless throng, 

And quaff their blood-red wine. 
But never a charm, thou king of song, 

Holds the cup for a soul like thine. 

Then heed not "Alice" nor "Henrie's" strain, 

Though soft their murmuriugs be, 
But plume thine eagle-pinions again 

For a loftier flight with me ; 
And I will give thee a grasp and a "sign," 

As we float to our starry bowers. 
And whisper a word that is only known 

To kindred souls like ours. 

Oh, come ! each radiant star as we pass, 

With its music wild and sweet. 
Shall sweep o'er the glittering waves of light 

As they thrill beneath our feet ; 
And spirits of flame shall herald our name, 

As the pearly gates unfold. 
And together we'll enter the "city of heaven," 

Whose streets are paved with gold. 



110 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And there we'll drink of that living stream 

That flows from the ^^great white throne," 
As our angel-pinions quiver and gleam 

With a bliss to earth unknown ; 
And a glorious crown, with its starry rays, 

Shall encircle thy "poet-brow," 
And the golden harp be thine, whose lays 

In thy soul are echoing now. 



-^'^- 



COME TO ME IN DREAMS. 

Oh come to me in dreams, love, 

In the calm and silent night, 
And our souls shall meet together 
-« With a thrill of pure delight ; 
Through the dim air pale and misty, 

Through the moon's soft silvery beams, 
My spirit bids thee hasten, love, — 

Oh come to me in dreams ! 

Oh come, when sleep lies heavy 

On the weary world below, 
And hearts, with anguish throbbing, 

Forget awhile their woe ; 
When on rock, and tree, and blossom 

The moon serenely beams. 
The mountain breeze is whispering, love. 

Oh come to me in dreams ! 



MORN UPON THE MOUNTAINS. Ill 

Oh come, and we will fly, love, 

On our spirit-wings away 
To a world so pure and radiant, 

Where the angels love to stray ; 
And we '11 wander mid its bowers, love, 

Till morning softly beams ; 
But when moon and stars are blending, love, 

Oh come to me in dreams I 



-^^- 



MORN UPON THE MOUNTAINS. 

It is a morn of such pure radiant beauty 

As well might wake the Poet's wildest dream : 
The white mists sleeping on the quiet valleys, 

Like tiny lakes of molten silver seem ; 
The snowy clouds float 'mid a sea of azure. 

The moon, slow waning, lingers in the west, 
As if she waited for the day-god, in his glory 

To smile upon her, ere she sank to rest ; 
Each rocky crag and lofty peak are kindling 

With living flame, as the first golden ray 
Comes flashing up in all its glittering splendor. 

Rending the dark mantle of the night away, 
Lifting the silvery mists that lightly quiver, 

And float like webs of gossamer along, 
'Till one by one their pearly tints have vanished, 

Then all is one wild burst of glorious song. 



112 Clara's poems. 

From rock to glen the liquid music's thrilling 

My soul with rapture, and the leafy wood 
Is echoing with the soft melodious anthem 

Of nature in her mountain solitude ; 
And, as amid this glorious scene I wander, 

The morning breeze comes laden with perfume, 
Bathing my warm brow with its dewy freshness. 

Tinging my pale cheek with a transient bloom, 
And whispering like the voice of one departed : 

"Here may thy weary spirit be at peace ; 
This morn is but a type of that fair heaven. 

Where all thy cares and wanderings soon shall cease." 



TO A FRIEND. 

The autumn breeze sighs low and sweet 
Amid the fading leaves to-night ; 

The stars each other softly greet, 
The moonbeams fall in pearly light 

Upon the bower where late me met — 

And parted with such fond regret. 

And where art thou, my gentle friend ? 

Does slumber seal thy soft dark eye ? 
Do angel forms above thee bend 

In beauty from yon starry sky, 
And whisper in thine ear of one 
Who 's sadly dreaming here alone ? 



TO A FRIEND. 113 

Ay, dreaming of a manly form, 

With eyes so deeply, darkly wild ; 
A heart so generous, true, and warm. 

Who on the lonely minstrel smiled. 
And murmured — "Weary heart, look up, 
See pearls of love in sorrow's cup. 

''Kind friends are round thee — ^hearts that love 

The music of thy spirit lyre, 
And loved ones waiting thee above ; 

Then let such thoughts thy soul inspire. 
To dare the zenith heights of fame, 
For genius hath a deathless name." 

Dear friend, I thank thee for these words : 
The dark clouds lift, the sun appears, 

Again I wake the quivering chords, 
Long silent with the weight of tears, 

And fling their echoes on the wind, 

Responsive to a kindred mind. 

Then meet me in the land of dreams, 

Where souls congenial ever dwell. 
On verdant banks by gushing streams, 

Where music breathes her magic spell, 
And shapes of beauty glide along. 
In cadence with the poet's song. 

11 



114 CLARA'S POEMS. 



ALONE! ALONE! 

WRITTEN AFTER READING MYSTERIUM's EXQUISITE POEM "ALONE."' 

Alone ! alone ! nay, breathe it not, 

Thou young and gifted one. 
Why shouldst thou wish to be forgot, 

To live and die unknown, 
Where neither love nor friendship's light 

Could bless thy ''sea-isled home"? 

And why should sorrow ever wound 

A heart so pure as thine, 
Rich with the priceless jewels found 

Alone in wisdom's mine. 
Where thy proud soul hath ever knelt 

A votary at her shrine ? 

Think'st thou thy nature e'er was formed 

Unloved, alone to dwell ? 
To feel no thrill of passion warm, 

No high emotions swell 
Within thy soul, and God's own light 

Quench in an anchorite's cell ? 

Not so, my friend : thy rich thought-gems. 
So brilliant and refined, 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 115 

Should ne'er iu dim obscurity 

Be shrouded and confined ; 
But like the sun's bright rays go forth 

To improve and bless mankind. 

Then tune thy harp to hope's sweet strain, 

Thou glorious, gifted one ; 
For many a high and noble heart 

Throbs fondly to thine own ; 
And breathe no more that mournful word — 

Thou canst not be alone ! 



THE SUMMER RAIN. 

The rain, the blessed summer rain I 

'Tis trickling from the eaves. 
In low, sweet tinkling melody. 

Upon the whispering leaves ; 
The blossoms ope their drowsy eyes 

From out their dusty beds, 
Unfold their gold and crimson lips, 

And raise their drooping heads. 

The vivid lightnings softly play 
Along the dark'ning skies, 

And, booming slowly, far away 
Heaven's grand artillery dies. 



] I () Clara's poems. 

The birds liave sought their shady nests, 
The herds haste o'er the plain — 

All nature seems to thrill with joy, 
As falls the summer rain. 

And see ! how beautiful it comes, 

In sparkling crystal showers ! 
How joyous smiles the thirsty earth, 

How fragrant breathe the flowers I 
Oh ! bless the God of love who gives 

The cool, sweet summer rain, 
To save the ripening fruits, and fill 

The golden harvest grain. 



-^^^- 



THE DEAD OF 1853. 

What sad and mournful memories 

These solemn words recall. 
Of the young, the loved, the beautiful. 

O'er whom death's sable pall 
Hath fallen like the sudden gloom 

That vails the summer sky, 
When the storm-cloud gathers darkly 

And the winds sweep wildly by ! 

Some have faded in the spring-time, 
When the violet's soft perfume 

Was mingled with the snow-drop 
And the crocus round their tomb, 



THE DEAD OF 1853. 11 T 

And birds were singing blithely 

On every budding spray — 
When earth was j&lled with music 

They breathed their souls away. 

Some drooped when summer roses 

Bloomed richly o'er the sod, 
Where once in health and beauty 

In life's sweet morn they trod ; 
And 'neath the old oak's shadow 

We've laid them down to sleep, 
Where the flowers they loved may blossom, 

And the summer dews may weep. 

Some have passed away when autumn's 

Pale leaves were falling fast. 
And a requiem sad and mournful 

Was heard in every blast, 
As the chilling winds of winter 

Swept rudely o'er each mound, 
Where many weary pilgrims 

Have rest and quiet found. 

O'er that sweet and sunny south land, 

Where the tall magnolias bloom. 
Swept the hot-breath of the pestilence 

Like the desert's fierce simoom. 
And the wise, the great, the gifted. 

The lowly and the proud. 

Inmates of cot or palace, 

Alike before it bowed. 
11* 



118 CLARA'S POEMS. 

From many a home of sorrow, 

From many a stricken one, 
Comes a dirge of thrilling anguish- 

For those we've loved are gone; 
And genius mourns her children 

Whose light of song is o'er — 
The good, the pure, the lovely — 

Who will smile on us more. 

But oh ! there 's balm in Gilead 

For every wounded heart, 
And love divine can heal us, 

And peace and joy impart ; 
Look up, then, poor bereaved one. 

And kiss the chastening rod. 
With confidence unfaltering 

In thy father and thy God. 



THE EXILE'S SONG OF HOME. 

Oh, let me dream ! I see once more 

That little sparkling rill 
That murmured past my father's door — 

Methinks I hear it still : 
For I was then a merry child. 

Beside that little stream 
That wandered round my cottage home. 



THE exile's song OP HOME. 1 1 9 

Then let me dream, 

Oh I let me dream 
I am a happy child once more, 
Beside that murmuring stream. 

Oh ! let me dream of parents kind, 

Of brothers brave and true, 
Of sisters pure as lily bells. 

When bathed in morning dew ; 
For these were life's bright morning hours. 

And still to me they seem 
The sweetest my sad heart hath known. 
Then let me dream, 
Oh ! let me dream 
I am a merry child once more, 
By that soft murmuring stream. 

Yes, let me dream ! my fatherland 

Lies far across the main ; 
Those sweet companions of my youth 

I '11 never meet again ; 
For many dear ones sleep in death 

Beside that peaceful stream, 
And strangers fill my chilhood's home. 
Then let my sad heart dream, 
Oh 1 let me dream 
I'm happy with them all once more, 
By that soft murmuring stream. 



120 CLARA'S POEMS. 



IF WE MUST PART. 

If we must part, oh I give me back 

The heart from passion free, 
Yet filled with all love's holiest dreams. 

That once I gave to thee ; 
Grive, give again the trusting faith 

That bound my soul to thine, 
That made hope's darkened star once more 

With radiant beauty shine. 

If we must part, give back the vows 

I breathed to thee alone. 
My soul's ideal, pure as when 

I deemed thee all mine own ; 
Grive back the deep and priceless love 

I gave to thee of yore, 
And to my weary soul the dove 

Of peace again restore. 

In vain I ask; thou never canst 

Give back those treasures now, 
Or bid oblivion's waters roll 

Across my throbbing brow. 
Yet give the memories of the past, 

If we indeed must part ; 
I'll twine them, with hope's faded flowers, 

Around my bleeding heart. 



AN AUTUMN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 121 



AN AUTUMN EVENING IN THE COUNTRY. 

I LOVE, this gentle autumn eve, 

To watch the sun's decline ; 
But the thoughts that make my spirit grieve 

I cannot well define ; 
For a voice seems whispering sad and low, 

In every sound I hear, 
''We mourn o'er summer's fading bloom 

And the swiftly closing year." 

A radiant tint of glory seems 

To gild the forest trees. 
As they bend, like waves of liquid gold. 

Before the northern breeze ; 
And far along the western sky 

The rosy clouds of even 
Seem like some dim remembered dream 

Of the glorious gates of heaven. 

Oh ! would that I might sink to rest, 

Like this sweet autumn eve. 
With hopes so bright that o'er my grave 

ISTo friend should ever grieve ; 
But as they strewed my lowly bed 

With some once-cherished flower. 
Would say — "Her close of life was like 

Sweet autumn's evening hour." 



122 CLARA'S POEMS. 



A BIRTH-DAY GREETING. 

TO MY FKIEND, COL. D. HAKRY H Y TT, OF ST. LOUIS. 

Here's health to thee, dear Harry, 

Though we are far apart. 
For well I know thou 'It pledge to me 

With a true and noble heart, 
And that to-day my image wears 

A pleasant smile for thee ; 
Then health and happiness be thine. 

Wherever thou may'st be. 

The pure white snow lies deep to-day 

Upon the cold earth's breast, 
And friends we loved one year ago, 

Beneath it softly rest ; 
Above the golden sunshine falls 

Upon each sleeper's tomb. 
Like God's own smile dispersing all 

The darkness and the gloom. 

I met thee first, dear Harry, 
'Mid fashion's brilliant throng. 

Thou, the gifted son of genius, 
I, the simple child of song ; 



TWILIGHT SHADOWS. 123 

But from thine eyes the holy light 

Of friendship softly shone, 
And soon two kindred spirits thrilled 

Melodiously as one. 

'Tis long since then, dear Harry, 

And we have often met. 
Yet the beauty of that starry eve 

I never can forget; 
And time shall only closer twine 

For us sweet friendship's chain ; 
Then health and happiness be thine, 

Until we meet again. 



TWILIGHT SHADOWS. 

When the twilight shadows softly 

Fall upon the dewy plain, 
With the first pale star of evening. 

Come my loved and lost again. 
Breathing their sweet influence o'er me, 

As remembrance wakes each tone 
Of the loving words that bound me 

To each dear and precious one. 

Then they gather fondly round me, 
With their looks of holy love, 



124 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Whispering soon we '11 come and bear thee 
To thy peaceful home above ; 

And their image is forever 
With me wheresoe'er I go, 

Sanctifying every footstep 
Of my pilgrimage below. 

At the solemn hush of midnight, 

When the weary sink to sleep. 
Then my soul its silent vigils 

With the unseen world doth keep ; 
Then I leave my sleepless pillow, 

And my spirit flies afar, 
Seeking them in worlds of glory, 

'Mid each bright and radiant star. 

Then in dreams I hear the music 

Of celestial harpers nigh, 
And their soft ethereal murmurs 

Seem to fill the earth and sky, 
Telling me to wait with patience, 

Till my Saviour bids me come, 
Where my loved and lost will hasten 

To receive their wanderer home. 



" THE FAIRY OF MELROSE." 125 

"THE FAIRY OF MELROSE." 

INSCRIBED TO MISS NARCISSA P. SAUNDERS. 

She came like a sunbeam, 

All sparkling and bright, 
Dispersing the shadows 

From sorrow's dark night ; 
Her soft rosy lips 

Dropping honey and balm 
In my poor stricken heart, 

'Till its throbbings grew calm, 
And the Iris of hope 

Spanned again my life's skies, 
Reflected in love 

From her beautiful eyes. 

She is lovely and graceful, 

From prudery free, 
Intellectual and modest. 

As maidens should be ; 
With a smile for the happy, 

For the wretched, a tear — 
Seek all this world over, 

You '11 scarce find her peer : 
In the garden of beauty 

The queenliest rose 
Is the dear little fairy 

That blooms in Melrose. 
12 



126 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Her voice is as gentle 

And sweet as the coo 
Of the dove ; and her heart 

Just as loving and true — 
Where the jewels of purity, 

Honor, and truth 
Glow radiant, undimmed 

By the follies of youth. 
Heaven crown her with blessings, 

Wherever she goes, 
Our beautiful fairy, 

The pride of Melrose. 



MY HEART IS SAD. 

My heart is sad I the summer breeze 

That wanders softly by 
But wakes the mournful memories 

That deep within it lie ; 
Like some remembered voice they breathe, 

Across my troubled mind, 
A lonely echo of the past 

Forever in it shrined. 

My heart is sad 1 would I could find. 
Beside life's rugged stream. 



SNOW-FLAKES AND FLOWERS. 121 

One quiet spot where I might rest, 

If only but to dream 
Of those sweet hopes, when life to me 

Was one bright summer day; 
The earth is still as fair — but ah. 

Those hopes have passed away I 

And left me like a wanderer lone 

Amid some desert wild ; 
Oh ! is there not relief, I cry, 

For earth's worn, weary child ? 
Yes, Eaith replies, sad heart, be still; 

Beyond the starry dome 
The white-winged angels smiling wait 

To lead the wanderer home. 



-^(^ 



SNOW-ELAKES AND ELOWERS. 

Why should she weep ? the angels knew 

It was too pure for earth : 
They claimed her baby for their own. 

E'en from its very birth ; 
And though no flowers were blooming there, 

A sweet perfume to shed. 
They threw the snow-flakes softly down 

To deck her darling's bed. 



128 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Why should she weep ? the northern blast 

Breaks not its quiet rest, 
As calm as if it slumbered still 

Upon her gentle breast; 
And pale and beautiful it lies, 

Like some pure pearl enshrined ; 
And yet how vainly would we seek 

The precious gem to find ! 

Yes, the earth is cold, but the snow will lie 

In its stainless beauty there, 
Like white rose leaves that have floated down 

From the "bowers" of "Eden" fair; 
And the violets soon and the dewy rose 

Will breathe their soft perfume, 
And birds will sing their sweetest songs 

Around her baby's tomb. 

That pure white sinless brow now wears 

No trace of grief or shame ; 
But could she know through future years 

It would remain the same ? 
Ah, no ! then bid her weep no more, 

But kiss the chastening rod : 
Her babe just came to show how fair 

The angels are with God. 



THE CLOSE OP THE YEAR. 129 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

Hark I the old year now is passing 

With the midnight chimes away, 
Bearing many a glorious vision 

From the lovely, young, and gay, 
Of the hopes that earth can never 

Realize in future years ; 
Of the friends that time must sever. 

Or embalm their name with tears. 

Where are now my loved and cherished. 

Who once watched beside me here. 
And with smiles and merry greetings 

Welcomed in the new-born year ? 
Will they come no more to soothe me. 

And my weary spirit guide. 
Through the years that lie before me, 

'Till I slumber by their side ? 

Yes, those midnight chimes have wakened 

Memories of the past to me ; 
Voices sweet and low are breaking 

On my soul's deep reverie, 
With their pure celestial music — 

Tones for which in dreams I pine ; 
Fairy forms are fleeting round me, 

Angel eyes look into mine — 
12* 



130 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Thrilling every pulse to rapture, 

'Till my soul is filled with love, 
And I sigh to meet those dear ones 

In that peaceful clime above, 
Where no pain or grief can enter, 

Where with angel hosts I'll join, 
In those songs that flow unceasing 

In a language all divine. 



MEMORIES. 

When twilight shades are blending 

With the last faint crimson ray, 
And the first pale star is bending 

To watch the close of day; 
When moonbeams soft are lingering 

Around the ruined fane, 
The zephyr's low sweet whispering 

Seem echoing back the strain 
Of thy song of hope and gladness, 

Ere grief had touched thy lyre, 
Or breathed one tone of sadness, 

To quench thy spirit's fire ; — 

Oh I I 've heard those strains when dreaming 

In the lone and silent night, 
And caught, as I waked, the gleaming 

Of thine angel pinions bright, 



MEMORIES. 131 

In the dim ethereal radiance 

That floated round tliee still ; 
And the music soft, melodious, 

That made my sad heart thrill 
With a yearning to be with thee, 

And a wish that life were past, 
And my freed spirit soaring 

To meet with thine at last. 

I know my life is waning — 

Oh ! may it gently close. 
Without murmur or complaining, 

Like the last sigh of the rose. 
When the silvery cord is loos'ning 

That binds my being here. 
Be thou, my loved and lost one. 

The white-robed messenger, 
To waft my ransomed spirit 

Where life's wild storms are past, 
Tha,t my song, like the swan's when dying. 

May be sweetest at the last. 



132 CLARA'S POEMS. 



THE STRANGER'S FUNERAL. 

IT was a cold, cheerless Sabbath. The wind had blown all night 
in keen, fitful blasts, moaning and sighing like some weary 
spirit struggling to be released from its earthly prison-house ; and 
one suffering spirit had indeed plumed its glad wings and sought its 
kindred in a purer and better world than this. 

Poor young Warren was a stranger — a helpless invalid, and home- 
less. No fond mother or gentle sisters bent above his dying form, 
or wiped the death-dews from his pallid brow ; yet fair forms were 
around him, and gentle hands ministered to his wants, soothed his 
last hours with words of kind regard, and wept sweet tears of sym- 
pathy over his cold remains, as we laid him softly down to rest in 
hope of a glorious resurrection. He "slept in Jesus." 

Sleep, lonely stranger, sleep in peace, 

Though far from scenes to childhood dear ; 

Though strangers bear thee to thy grave, 
Though strangers weep around thy bier. 

No brother's hand thine eyelids closed, 

No sister's voice fell on thine ear; 
No parent whispered words of love 

To soothe thy parting struggle here. 

Yet friends were round thee, in thy need. 
To smooth thy passage to the tomb ; 

And One stood smiling by thy side, 
And walked with thee amid the gloom. 



THE stranger's FUNERAL. 133 

Jesus, the helpless "stranger's friend," 

Was with thee through that long, dark night, 

And in the radiant flush of morn, 
When thy glad spirit took its flight 

To that pure world of joy and peace. 

Where friends, departed long before, 
Were waiting, with triumphant songs. 

To greet thee on that blissful shore — 

There, where thy weary heart no more 
O'er blighted hopes and joys shall sigh, 

Where earthly pains and cares are o'er. 
And tears are wiped from every eye. 

The winds of winter sadly moan 

Above thy lowly, quiet bed. 
As now we leave thee all alone, 

gentle stranger, with the dead. 

Yet softly do they seem to breathe 

Above thy grave their fitful knell ; 
And we would whisper, sad and low, 

'' gentle stranger, fare thee well !" 



134 CLARA'S POEMS. 



WHY WEEP WE FOR THE DEAD? 

I NEVER see a fair young girl 

In youthful innocence rejoice, 
I never hear her low, sweet laugh, 

The echo of her own sweet voice, 

But that I think, in future years. 
How sad, perhaps, may be her fate ; 

Her brightest hopes be quenched in tears, 
And her warm heart left desolate ! 

And I have wept, as in the tomb 
The fair, the beautiful was laid. 

That death could blight so sweet a flower- 
That loveliness so soon should fade. 

Yet as I wept, amid the gloom 
A low, sweet murmur reached mine ear, 

As if from angel lips 'twere breathed — 
It whispered soft, "She is not here." 

And I have stood where aged men, ' 
With snowy locks, have soundly slept ; 

But o'er their calm, still resting-place 
I never for a moment wept; 

For oh ! how pleasant must it be, 
After the care, the toil, the strife, 

To bid adieu to earthly change. 
And welcome everlasting life ! 





t-3 






K 






W 






tu 






K 






CO 






M 






W 


gi 


*^ 


% 


IrS 


1 


LJ 


L^ 




O 


fe 


M 


• 


!^ 




ly 




S3 


S?3 


J* 


iT 


i-_ 



> 



% 




LINES. 1 35 



LINES 

SUGGESTED by the funeral of Hon. A. V. Brown, late Postmaster- 
General of the United States, at the Capitol, Nashville, Ten- 
nessee, March 14th, 1859. 

He comes ! he comes ! but not as of yore, 

With joy to his Southern home,* 
But heralded, alas ! by the cannon's roar, 

The knell, and the muffled drum. 

He comes I but the shadowy gloom of death 

Rests dank on his lofty brow; 
And the warm, true heart, once throbbing beneath, 

Lies cold and pulseless now. 

He comes ! but the patriot's race is run. 

And the statesman's toils are o'er. 
And Tennessee weeps for her noble son, 

Who'll guard her rights no more. 

And there 's silence and grief in thy halls, Melrose, 

Where a tearful mourner in vain 
Listens sadly at eve, for the well-known step 

That Cometh, ah ! never again. 



^ Melrose. 



136 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And never again, through thy shady groves, 
Shall they wander in converse sweet ; 

For only in Eden's bright bowers of love 
Can the husband and wife now meet. 

Then lay him to rest where that gentle wife, 
With children and friends, may come, 

To weep o'er the dust so dear in life, 
Close by his own loved home. 



NIGHT THOUGHTS AT OAKLAND COTTAGE. 

'Tis night ! the radiant moon looks down, 
Sprinkling, with its silvery showers. 

Rock, tree, and shrub, and sparkling wave, 
Bright buds, and brilliant dewy flowers ; 

On such a night the angels rove, 

If ever, from their bowers above. 

The light so calm and holy seems, 

I once more fancy by my side 
The bright ideal of my dreams. 

Who passed away in manhood's pride ; 
Yet, when life's cares my heart depress, 
Still comes to soothe, console, and bless. 

Oh, loved and lost ! this world hath been 

A sad and dreary one to me. 
Since, 'neath the turf, so soft and green. 

We made a lowly bed for thee ; 



NIGHT THOUGHTS AT OAKLAND COTTAGE. 131 

The young, the noble, and the brave, 
Thus doomed to fill an early grave. 

Night, glorious night ! I love thee well, 
With all thy glittering, starry train ; 

Methinks their heavenly anthems swell 
In many a soft, seraphic strain, 

As distant worlds their voices raise, 

And ceaseless hymn their Maker's praise. 

'Tis midnight ! and the dew-drops fall 

Light as the tread of fairy feet ; 
And gentle vows, unheard by all 

Save kindred spirits, low and sweet 
Are whispered 'neath the starry skies, 
As heart to heart responsive sighs. 

On such a night my soul would fain 

Shake off her fetters, and arise 
From earth, with all its grief and pain, 

And seek a home beyond the skies ; 
Where dwells alone that perfect bliss 
I've vainly dreamed to find in this. 

13 



138 CLARA'S POEMS. 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OP MY ONLY SISTER, MRS JANE W TARVER, WHO DIED 

APRIL 26, 1856. 

"There were twelve of us, but three are left." — ***** 

Twelve precious pearls were braided 

Round a gentle lady's brow, 
But one by one they've faded. 

Only three remaining now — 
For death has gathered softly 

And silently each one. 
And twined them in a chaplet 

Around God's holy throne. 

The last sweet one that's fallen 

Was a pure and shining gem — 
A priceless jewel, worthy 

To grace a diadem. 
But angels' hands have severed 

The golden links apart, 
That bound our gentle sister 

To each fond and loving heart. 

And we've laid her down to slumber 

By those* she loved the best. 
And smoothed the green turf lightly 

Above her care-worn breast, 

* Her children. 



COME UNTO ME, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST. 139 

Where the April violets springing, 
Breathe their faint but rich perfume, 

And bright wild birds are singing 
Sad requiems o'er her tomb. 

Then softly rest, sweet sister, 

Thy pilgrimage is o'er — 
Thou hast crossed death's gloomy river, 

But thy Saviour went before. 
And though the night was long and drear, 

When thy spirit-chords were riven. 
Thy morn was bright and glorious. 

For, oh, it dawned in heaven ! 



COME UNTO ME, AND I WILL GIYE YOU REST. 

The Saviour speaks, in accents mild, 

To him by grief oppressed — 
Come unto me, earth's weary child, 

And I will give thee rest. 
Like Hermon's dews that softly fall 

Upon the drooping flowers, 
Those sacred words revive my heart. 

In sorrow's darkest hours. 

For life hath been a pilgrimage 

To me both sad and sore ; 
But still sustained I journey on, 

And soon it will be o'er. 



140 Clara's poems. 

Then let me bear thy gentle yoke, 
And kiss thy chastening rod ; 

My burden thou wilt soon remove, 
My Saviour and my God. 



-^^- 



WEDDED LOVE. 

I LOVED thee when the hue of health 

And hope was on thy lofty brow : 
Thy cheek is pale, thine eye is dim 

With sorrow — yet I love thee now. 
Thy voice first taught, with melting tone, 

My young romantic heart to thrill 
With rapturous joy, till then unknown — 

That voice to me is music still. 
Thy manly form, erect and proud. 

Was like the forest's lordly pine : 
That form with grief and care is bowed — 

Yet is my love still fondly thine. 

I loved thee when thy friends seemed true, 

And house, and lands, and wealth were thine- 
Now, like a vision false they've fled. 

And not a wreck is left behind : 
Yet there is one that will console, 

And share thy lot, whate'er it be ; 
True as the needle to the pole, 

My heart will ever turn to thee. 



"r THINK OF THEE." 141 

And when its last faint pulse shall cease, 

And grief no more my spirit fill, 
Perchance in. some bright realm of peace, 

I'll prove thy guardian angel still. 



-^^ 



"I THINK OF THEE." 

TO ADA IN HEAVEN. 

I THINK of thee when the sun's first ray 

Disperses the gloom of night ; 
When flower, and bud, and dewy spray 

Are flushed with his rosy light; 
When nature sends up her sweet matin song 

To the source of joy and love, 
And bright winged forms bear the notes along 

Through the blue arch bending above. 

I think of thee when the quiet stars 

Look lovingly down on earth, 
And I look with a wildly-throbbing heart 

For the glorious one of thy birth ; 
Yet I know that a brighter one now gleams 

On thy pure, angelic brow. 
Caught from the throne of God, whose beams 

Illumine my sad soul now. 

And I think of thee as we laid thee down 
In the narrow bed to rest, 
18* 



142 Clara's poems. 

Where the weary and worn from troubles cease, 
And the heart is no more oppressed — 

With that voiceless grief that hath never a name, 
Though its impress may oft be seen 

On the lofty brow, and the compressed lip, 
And the dark eyes' depths serene. 

When the moon sheds her pale and silvery light, 

And the stars seem asleep on the lea, 
Then my soul goes forth in the calm midnight 

And holds a sweet tryst with thee ; 
For thy last fond words for evermore 

Strengthen and cheer my heart — 
''When a few brief years of pain are o'er, 

We shall meet and never part." 



^^- 



THE ANGEL'S SERENADE. 

What soft, melodious notes are these 
That float upon the midnight breeze ? — 
Now distant, and again more near, 
They fall so sweetly on mine ear, 
Like harps by seraph fingers played — 
'Tis sure an angel serenade ! 

The moon seems gently sailing through 
Yon star-gemmed vault of azure hue, 
While every vale and mountain height 
Is bathed in floods of silvery light ; 



THE angel's serenade. 

The birds sit hushed on every bough, 
And silence holds her vigils now, 
And all is still in earth and air, 
As if the world had paused to hear 
The sounds by angel harpers made 
In this mysterious serenade. 

It is, indeed, a glorious song 
That echoes heaven's bright arch along — 
Their golden harps exulting ring, 
While countless hosts of angels sing : 
Glory to God I from realms of light 
Glad tidings we have brought to-night ; 
Good-will to men, on earth be peace ; 
Let war, and strife, and envy cease ; 
We usher in a glorious morn — 
A Prince and Saviour now is born. 

He comes ! the broken heart to cheer ; 
To dry the hapless mourner's tear ; 
The weary captive to unbind ; 
Illuminate the darkened mind ; 
To raise the soul by sin oppressed. 
And give the heavy laden rest; 
To light the grave where horror reigns, 
And lead the monster, death, in chains; 
To shed a radiance o'er its gloom, 
Till earth again like Eden bloom. 
Glory to God ! creation sings : 
Ye seraphs, sweep the glittering strings 



143 



144 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Till heaven re-echo back the strain — 
Messiah comes in peace to reign. 

He comes I but not in royal state, 
Attended by the rich and great ; 
No gorgeous couch supports his head — 
A babe in lowly manger laid — 
The great Redeemer sinks to rest 
Upon his virgin mother's breast. 
The angels, at this wondrous sight, 
Adore, and tremble with delight; 
Such love as this was never known. 
That God should give his only Son 
To die upon the accursed tree, 
A ruined world from guilt to free : 
And, bending from the starry skies. 
They view the scene with glad surprise, 
And raise the loud, triumphant strain. 
Till heaven and earth respond again 
The song that makes creation thrill, 
"Glory to God ! to men good-will I" 
Then soft and low the murmurs fade 
Of that celestial serenade. 

Oh I when my dreams of earth are o'er. 
And mortal music charms no more — 
"When slowly life's bright visions fade, 
Still may I hear that serenade I 



TO ONE BELOVED. 145 



TO ONE BELOVED. 

Farewell, beloved one ! perchance we never 

Amid life's changing scenes again shall meet, 
Yet in my spirit depths, enshrined forever. 

Thy memory will make music, low and sweet. 
Perhaps I ne'er again, entranced, may listen 

To those soft, pleading tones so dear to me, 
Nor mark thy blue eyes, with love's heart-dew glisten. 

As when I parted last, dear one, with thee. 

'Tis sad to part with one so loved and cherished, 

So fondly twined around my trusting heart. 
Who, like an angel, came, when even hope seemed perished, 

And of my very life has now become a part; 
Who, when the tempest darkly round me lowered. 

Smiled like a sunbeam o'er the threat'ning cloud. 
And golden thoughts upon my pathway showered, 

Until my restless soul again submissive bowed. 

How can I say farewell ? — ^thy treasured token 

Will waken many a dream of rapture to the last. 
But, like a silvery lute-string, crushed and broken. 

My heart can only give an echo of the past. 
Oh I wilt thou not recall that vanished past before thee. 

With all its sweet, bewildering music, birds, and flowers, 
And let it breathe its gentle influence o'er thee, 

To soothe and bless thee 'mid life's weary hours ? 



146 CLARA'S POEMS. 

How can I part from thee, beloved, forever ? — 

How tear thy cherished image from my heart ? 
Yain would I strive the spirit-bond to sever 

That makes thee of my life, my soul, a part I 
Thy love is all on earth I have to cheer me : 

Though, like the wandering dove, afar I roam. 
My thoughts, by day and night, still hover near thee, 

For thy true heart can only be my spirifs home ! 



"THE BROKEN-HEARTED." 

Clasp the pale, cold hands so meekly, 
O'er the heart once warm and true, 

Ceased, for aye, their busy motion, — 
No more work for them to do. 

Close the weary eyes, so heavy, 
No more tears for them to shed ; 

Part the raven tresses softly, 

No more pain for that poor head. 

Closed alike to love's soft murmurs 

Is the ear so dull in death. 
Or the base insidious whisper 

Of detraction's poisonous breath 

Ah ! if in that heart you've planted, 
With a ruthless hand, a thorn — 

Loving glances coldly blighted — 
Answered loving words with scorn,- 



"the broken-hearted." 147 

God forgive you, for you never 
Can repair the wrong you've done ; 

All too late your tears of anguish 
To recall that gentle one I 

Oh I the grave, so cold and silent ; 

How we'd shrink, with solemn dread, 
From its dark and misty portals, 

If no light by hope was shed I 

If love's broken links were never 

To be gathered up again ; 
If beyond death's swelling river 

No bright port of peace remain ; 

If no radiant bow of promise 

Spring from that dark, gloomy cloud ; 

If love's sweet, ecstatic visions , 

End but with the pall and shroud, — 

Then, indeed, would will triumphant 

Rear its hydra-crested head, 
If all hopes of life immortal 

With the passing spirit fled. 

But a murmur, like the rippling 

Of the silvery-sounding wave, 
Is around me, as I linger 

By the broken-hearted's grave. 



148 CLARA'S POEMS. 

''Weep not — she is only sleeping!" 
Far above yon starry sky 
Her freed soul is with the angels, 
Where no tear-drops dim the eye ; 

Where false love again can never 
Fill her gentle heart with pain ; 

Where her harp, so wildly broken, 
Breathes love's thrilling notes again. 

Then rest thee, dear one, rest thee softly. 
Life's wild dreams for thee are o'er; 

Soon with smiles we hope to greet thee, 
Where the faithful part no more. * 



-^^- 



I WOULD I WERE A BIRD. 

I WISH that I could be a bird, 

To nestle on thy breast. 
To feel the throbbings of thy heart, 

Atfd sing thee, love, to rest ; 
To breathe my soul's deep tenderness, 

By all, save thee, unheard. 
In strains of thrilling melody — 

Oh, would I were a bird ! 

I wish that I could be a flower, 

So beautiful and rare, 
That thou wouldst love and cherish me 

With all a miser's care ; 



I WOULD T WERE A BIRD. 149 

And sun me with thy loving smile, 

And make thy heart my bower, 
Where I might bloom unseen the while — 

Oh, would I were a flower ! 

I wish that I could be a star, 

So radiant, clear, and bright. 
That never cloud could intervene 

To hide me from thy sight; 
Whose rays, o'er life's tempestuous sea, 

Might beam on thee afar. 
And guide thee to one loving heart — 

Oh, would I were a star ! 

I wish that I could be all these 

Sweet loving things to thee : 
My song should cheer thy loneliness, 

My light thy guidance be ; 
And if thy love were all mine own. 

Amid life's darkest hour 
I'd be, then, all combined to thee — 

A bird — a star — a flower ! 



14 



150 CLARA'S POEMS. 



TO MISS LOA A N. 

Days, weeks, and months have flown 

Since we in tears did part. 
But thy fair and gentle image 

Is still mirrored in my heart ; 
And thy low, sweet voice is sounding 

Far down in memory's sea — 
Oh ! I ofttimes wonder, Lida, 

If I still am dear to thee. 

Since last we met, grief's tracings 

Are heavy on my brow : 
Death has waved his dark wing o'er me, 

I am lone and childless now ; 
For me hope's withered blossoms 

No more on earth can bloom, 
My soul's last idol sleepeth, 

Dear Lida, in the tomb. 

Where art thou roaming, sweet one ? 

Oh! haste thee to the ''Nest," 
Let me clasp my own pet "birdling" 

Once more unto my breast. 
The winter's almost over, 

The flowers will soon appear, 
And the song-birds be returning — 

Come with them, Lida, dear. 



TO MISS LIDA A N. 151 

Come, and again we'll wander, 

In the pleasant summer-time. 
Where the 'Tairy-cascade" waters 

Ring out their silvery chime ; 
And as we pensive listen 

To their murmurs soft and low, 
Will not fond memory whisper 

Sweet dreams of "long ago?" 

But, Lida, is thy young heart 

Still in "maiden fancy free"? 
Or hast thou found one dearer 

Than all the world to thee ? 
Hath he wooed and won our "wild bird," 

Her home with him to make ? 
Then taring him with thee, darling. 

He'll be welcome for thy sake. 



152 CLARA'S POEMS. 



MY PEEKLE8S FLOWER. 

Oh ! my heart once cherished a lovely flower, 

In a sunny garden fair, 
And for years I inhaled its rich perfume 

As it bloomed in the summer air ; 
And it cheered my soul in its darkest hour. 

When even hope seemed fled, 
Till a storm arose, and my peerless flower 

'Neath its wasting breath lay dead. 

And many a year hath passed since then. 

And IVe wandered sadly on. 
And mourned o'er the blight of my early hopes, 

And wept for my sweet flower gone ; 
And this world is a dreary place to me, 

Yet I know, in a fadeless bower 
Above the skies, I shall meet once more 

My own sweet, peerless flower. 



TO G H. L. 



153 



TO G. H. L. 

My valley home ! my father's house, 

Would I could see thee now, 
And feel my gentle mother's kiss 

To-night upon my brow — 
Could linger by the river side, 

And list its song of joy. 
And o'er its mimic billows glide, 

As when a wayward boy. 

Methinks I hear its rippling wave 

Make music on the shore. 
And see the water-lilies lave 

Their snowy bells once more, 
And hear my brother's merry shout, 

As from the silvery tide 
He drew the shining, speckled trout. 

In gleeful schoolboy pride. 

I know my father's heart is lone. 

And my sweet mother sighs. 
Till, musing of her absent son, 

Tears dim her soft, dark eyes ; 
And when amid the grand old trees 

The quivering moonbeams play. 
To heaven a tearful glance she'll raise, 

And for the wanderer pray. 
14* 



154 Clara's poems. 

What though in this fair Southern land 

Warm, loving hearts I've found, 
With whom, in friendship's golden band, 

My own is softly bound : 
'Mid all its music, birds, and flowers, 

My thoughts will sadly roam, 
To linger at this twilight hour 

Round my sweet valley home. 



-^•a^- 



THE ASCENSION. 

TO DR. PROCTOR, OP THE CHRISTIAN CHFRCn, ST. LOUIS, THIS POEM IS 
DEDICATED AS A TOKEN OP ESTEEM AND FRIENDSHIP. 

'TwAS morn upon Judea's hills. 

That calm and peaceful hour 
When trembling dew-drops shone like gems 

On pendant leaf and flower. 

See, radiant in the eastern skies. 

The king of day appears. 
And smiles away the frowns of night, 

And kisses up her tears. 

A thousand domes and minarets 

Seemed tinged with rosy light, 
And the temple's golden pinnacles 

Were dazzling to the sight. 



THE ASCENSION. 155 

A silvery haze still softly slept 

On Olivet's fair brow, 
As through her dark-green olive groves 

A group are wending slow. 

They followed with a wondering look 

The footsteps of their Lord, 
With hearts that throbbed with hope and fear, 

And spake no idle word. 

Yet oft his sweet and gentle tones 

Their mournful thoughts would cheer : 
"Behold, I'm with you evermore. 
Why should you doubt or fear?" 

And oft he paused, as if to trace 

Each well-remembered scene. 
Where, on his pilgrimage of love, 

His weary steps had been. 

On yonder height Jerusalem, 

The glorious city, slept. 
O'er whose dark fate in future years 

Such bitter tears he'd wept. 

Here, 'neath the mountain shadow, stood 

That little cot so blest. 
Where Lazarus and his sisters dwelt, 

And where, a welcome guest. 

So oft he'd rested from the scorn 
That mocked his steps by day — 



156 Clara's poems. 

Oh, beautiful and dear it seemed, 
As nestling there it lay ! 

He gazed on Cedron's silvery wave, 

Gethsemane's garden fair, 
And then recalled that dreadful night 

Of agony and prayer. 

He marked the cross on Calvary's hill ; 

Then from that scene of blood 
He turned, and soon, with those he loved, 

On Olivet he stood. 

His dark eye scanned each anxious face, 
He smiled with holy love — 
''AH power is given to me," he cried, 
"In earth and heaven above." 

"1 send you forth, my chosen few; 
Spread the glad tidings wide. 
That, to redeem men from their sins, 
The Son of God hath died." 

And, as he spoke, a crimson cloud 
Floats through the azure skies — 

Its silvery lining softly blends 
With sunset's gorgeous dies : 

It hovered o'er the Saviour's head, 
It beamed with dazzling light, 

And as he, smiling, blessed them all, 
Keceived him from their sight. 



THE ASCENSION 15t 

And folded its bright vesture round 

The form they loved so dear, 
Then upward soared; yet still they gazed 

With wonder, love, and fear. 

While thus absorbed, they heeded not 

Two beauteous strangers nigh. 
Whose snowy wings and shining robes 

Were glittering to the eye. 

They speak ! like low, sweet music falls 
Their voice upon the ear — 
"Ye men of Galilee, why thus 
Do ye stand gazing here ? 

"This Jesus, whom ye've seen ascend, 
More glorious yet shall come. 
With shining hosts, amid the clouds, 
To bear his ransomed home." 

They stood alone — yet from that morn 

Was heard no doubting word ; 
'Twas there the loved disciples first 

Praised their ascended Lord. 



158 CLARA'S POEMS. 



GOD'S BEVERAGE. 

'Tis bursting from the mountain side, 

'Tis gushing clear and free — 
The pure, sweet beverage God hath brewed, 

Oh, thoughtless man, for thee ! 

JSTot in the simmering, smoky still, 
Whence poisonous vapors rise. 

But in the green and grassy dells 
The precious essence lies : 

There crystal fountains murmur low. 

There sings the tiny rill, 
As rushing in its beauty from 

The rock and vine-clad hill. 

'Tis sporting in the cataract's foam, 

'Tis dancing in the storm ; 
It folds a pure white mantle round 

The cold earth's wintry form. 

'Tis sleeping in the glacier deep, 

Beneath the midnight moon ; 
And it trembles in the dew-drop, as 

It bathes the rose of June. 

It sparkles in the seraph-zone 
That spans the azure skies ; 



TO MY BROTHER, J. C. LEAKE. 159 

'Tis woven in the sunbeams, in 
A thousand brilliant dies. 

'Tis giving health and beauty still 

To every living thing ; 
No murder and no madness will 

That priceless beverage bring. 

No blood defiles its purity — 

No orphan's tears are there — 
No drunkard curses it in death, 

With accents of despair. 

But pure and sweet, 'tis welling up 

Beneath the clear blue heaven. 
The pledge of love and happiness, 

That God to man has given. 



TO MY BROTHER, J. C. LEAKE. 

Do YOU remember, brother dear, 

The orchard where we played, 
And the two old apple-trees we claimed 

As ours, beneath whose shade 
We sported many a summer day, 

With hearts so light and free, 
Unconscious of the griefs and cares 

Life had for you and me ? 



160 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Do you remember, too, the spring 

That murmured sweetly there, — 
How we deemed some gentle fairy dwelt 

In its depths, so calm and clear, 
And fancied music softly breathed 

With the crystal water's flow. 
And the azure skies that were mirrored there, 

Seemed enchanted halls below ? 

And think you of those sunny hours 

When, hand in hand, we roved 
» In quest of early fruits and flowers, 

With playmates dearly loved ? 
When we mocked the woodland echoes with 

Our shouts of childish glee : 
Ah! happier were we then, dear J., 

Than we e'er again shall be. 

For time and death have wrought a change 

On all that joyous band — 
For some are in the silent tomb. 

Some in a foreign land ; 
And soft and low the evening breeze 

Sighs with a wailing tone. 
As, 'mid our old familiar trees, 

We sadly muse alone. 

And we are passing, brother dear. 

Unto that distant bourne, 
Where the weary traveler may rest. 

But never more return. 



SPEAK KINDLY TO THE ORPHAN. 161 

And here we may at last repose, 

Amid those scenes we love, 
While our unfettered spirits soar 

To seek our friends above. 



-^'^- 



SPEAK KINDLY TO THE ORPHAN. 

Oh ! let no word of harsh rebuke 

Fall on the orphans' ear ! 
Add not a pang to their lone hearts, 

Nor cause another tear. 

They have no mother's gentle voice 
To soothe their childish grief — 

No father's firm and manly arm 
To fly to for relief. 

They have no cheerful fireside, 

With smiling faces round. 
To welcome them. Ah, no ! their home 

With strangers must be found. 

And when the merry Christmas comes. 

Laden with gifts and toys, 
No parents kind select for them. 

And share their infant joys. 
15 



162 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Then speak to them in gentle tones, 
And soothe their deep regret ; 

And make them, by your love and care, 
Their loneliness forget. 

And He who is the orphan's friend 
Will add unto your store ; 

For he but lendeth to the Lord 
That giveth to the poor. 



DECEIVED. 

"Is friendship but a name? love but a jest?" — Anon. 

Opttimes I ask my weary heart, 

Can this indeed be true ? 
Are love and friendship but a dream, 

Transient as early dew, 
That in the morning sun appears 

Pearls, diamonds, rubies red. 
Till clouds his radiant face obscure. 

Then all their beauty's fled ? 

For men will oft with subtle art 
Their truest friends deceive — 

Win woman's pure and trusting heart. 
Only to break and leave ; 



DECEIVED. 163 

Vowing to love them evermore, 

Until their lives shall close, 
Enshrine them in their heart of hearts, 

Like perfume in the rose ! 

And thus deceived, proud woman's heart 

Oft breaks without a moan, 
Like ripples on some mountain lake — 

A moment seen, then gone; 
Yet some will smilingly live on 

Through long and weary years. 
None dreaming that her sparkling eyes 

Are bright with unshed tears I 

And thou, mine own familiar friend. 

Whom once I deemed so true, 
I've found thy friendship but a jest, 

Thy love like morning dew I 
Yet if, in after- years, thy heart 

Mourn broken faith to me. 
One contrite tear upon my urn 

Is all I'll ask of thee. 



164 CLARA'S POEMS. 



TO MY FRIEND, COL. GEO. F. A-K-S/ 

ON HIS BIRTHDAY, 1860. 

Fain would my simple muse essay 

A votive offering — sweet and pure, 
My friend — to hail tliy natal day, 

That shall recall me when no more. 
And could my glowing fancy breathe — 

In words — the thoughts that thrill me now, 
Bright gems of poesy I'd wreathe 

In beauty round thy classic brow. 

For thine's a graceful, manly form, 

That with Apollo's well may vie, 
And all thy soul, pure, true, and warm, 

Is mirrored in thy dark blue eye. 
Oh ! ever thus — Prometheus-like — 

Keep clear, undimmed, that hallowed flame, 
Nor ever pale its radiant light 

By aught that can thy manhood shame. 

Friend of my heart, in manhood's prime. 
Life's battle-field before thee lies, 

And to an ardent, gifted mind 

'Tis but to strive and win the prize. 

Then nerve thee for the noble strife ; 
Be firm, be energetic, free, 



LINES TO MRS O. K. 105 

And never in thy course through life 
Make thy fond mother bUish for thee. 

Then, as I touch my lone harp-strings, 

I'll wake its echoes wild and free, 
And waft upon night's starry wings 

Its softest, sweetest tones to thee. 
And pray that time may realize 

Thy youthful hopes, thy manly aim, 
And blend with all the good,, the wise, 

In future years, thine honored name. 



LINES TO MRS. 0. K. 

A BOUQUET I send you, fair lady, 

All gemmed with the dew-drops of May, 

And if with attention you'll listen. 

You will hear what the sweet flowers say. 

"Think of me, then," the Heart's-ease will whisper. 
Though we seldom each other may see ; 
While the Pink breathes ''the purest affection," 
The Box sighs, I'm "constant to thee." 

And the Rose, in her proud, queenly beauty, 
Shows truly a "favorite thou art ;" 

And the Mint and the Myrtle intwining. 

Speaks the love that is "warm in my heart." 
15* 



166 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And the Trefoil, that '' Providence ever 
Watches over the good and the true ;" 

And I send, in ^'love's bonds" to unite us, 
The sweet Honeysuckle to you. 



-^^- 



"DEAR LITTLE FRANK." 

His soft blue eyes are closed in death ; 

His little feet no more 
Will run with eager haste to meet 

His father at the door. 

His little hands, so busy once. 

Are folded on his breast; 
And cold those rosy lips that oft 

His mother's fondly pressed. 

And lovely as a sculptor's dream, 

He sleeps unconscious now, 
For the parting spirit left a gleam 

Of glory on his brow. 

That pure, white, sinless brow now wears 

No tinge of grief or shame; 
But wlio can tell, through future years. 

If 'twould remain the same ? 



"DEAR LITTLE FRANK " 167 

Ah, none ! and you who, frantic,- thus 

Mourn round his lifeless clay, 
Weep not I perhaps your darling was 

In mercy called away. 

Why weep because his stay was brief 

In this dark world of woe, 
That thus he hath escaped the grief 

Which all who live must know? 

Think of your dear one's last sweet words. 

When thus you sadly weep — 
As with a smile he whispered soft, 

''Now, Ma, I'll go to sleep." 

Then bid each vain repining cease, 

Hush every murmuring sigh, 
For blessed are the young who thus 

In life's sweet morning die. 

And grieve no more, dear friends, but bow 

Beneath the chastening rod ; 
Your child just came to show how fair 

The angels are with God. 



168 CLARA'S POEMS, 



REFLECTIONS OF A HUSBAND ON THE MINIATURE OF 

HIS WIFE. 

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO DOCTOR J. M, W. 

Oft in my lonely liours, when sadly musing 

O'er by-gone days of happiness with thee, 
I fondly gaze on this, thy faint resemblance, 

That, true to life, still seems to smile on me. 
But thou art gone, whose love made life so precious, 

And earth to me a paradise of bliss — 
Thy soft, dark eyes no more can beam upon me, 

Nor thy sweet lips return me kiss for kiss. 

Then I recall our years of blest communion, 

When, like a guardian angel by my side. 
Thine influence with such holy love was blended 

As won me from my waywardness and pride; 
And when around me all are calmly sleeping, 

In vain my lonely couch invites repose — 
My soul with thee a sacred tryst is keeping, 

And finds a brief oblivion to its woes. 

For we have passed such blissful hours together 
As only kindred spirits ever know — 

So full of rapture ! — ah I I dreamed that never 
Cold death could lay my cherished idol low. 



MIDNIGHT. 169 

Till thou wert called, my worshiped one, to leave me — 
To rend the links, that bound us here, apart ; 

'Twas then, thy seraph vestures soft unfolding, 
I knew thee for the angel now thou art. 

Loved one, though I no more on earth behold thee, 

I feel thy spirit ever lingers near ; 
As like a weary pilgrim on I wander, 

Thy low, soft voice thrills softly on mine ear. 
Although the ties by fate's decrees are severed 

That bound our hearts in one sweet, mystic chain, 
A few short years, and we shall meet in heaven. 

And clasp their broken links of love again. 



-s^^- 



IIDNIGHT. 

'Tis midnight, and the weary day hath ended, 

And all around is hushed in deep repose ; 
O'er hill and dale, and floweret, softly blended. 

The moon her pale, ethereal splendor throws ; 
The little rills are sparkling in their gladness, 

The night-bird sings her melancholy lay, 
And o'er my spirit steals a pensive sadness, 

As I recall the scenes of life's young day. 

Fair queen of night, that with thy silvery radiance 
Illum'st yon pure, cerulean dome above, 



1*70 Clara's poems. 

With all thy glittering hosts of starry planets, 
Forever singing one great hymn of love, 

I gaze with wonder on thy glorious beauty, 
TJndimmed by age, still rolling changeless on; 

While countless millions 'neath thy sight have perished, 
Thou art the same as at creation's dawn ; 

When morning stars together sang for joy, 

And night and chaos owned thy gentle reign ; 
When heaving billows, in their wild commotion, 

Boiled back affrighted in their dark domain. 
And as I raise my tearful glance to heaven, 

And feel the influence of this solemn hour, 
When ministering angels to the world are given, 

My soul is thrilled with strange mysterious power. 

Pure, radiant forms seem dimly floating round me, 

Dear loving eyes look love again to mine, 
And gentle tones amid the low winds murmur, 

For which, by day and night, I ever pine. 
Thus, when the midnight moon is softly beaming 

O'er hill and vale, with all her starry train, 
I'm not alone, but of a bright world dreaming. 

Where I shall meet my loved and lost again. 



SYMPATHY. 171 



SYMPATHY. 

I THINK of thee, when softly beams 

The midnight moon, beneath whose ray 
Our souls can meet in fancy's dreams. 

Denied throughout the weary day — 
And does she not a record keep 

Of all that's pure and dear to thee ? 
And is there not one page unseen. 

Sacred to love, and hope, and me ? 

I think of thee, and gentle thoughts 

Wake in my heart, by day unknown ; 
The night- wind sighs around me, filled 

With many a soft, enchanting tone : 
As if amid this tranquil scene 

My soul would wing its way to thine, 
And, filled with ecstasy, could feel 

Thy spirit all absorbed in mine. 

I think of thee as some pure star, 

Whose light is mirrored in the wave 
Of some still mountain lake afar, 

Where seldom storms or tempests rave ; 
I fain would be that lake to thee, 

And thou the star upon my breast — 
For one sweet look or smile of thine 

Would soothe my wildest thoughts to rest. 



172 CLARA'S POEMS. 

What is the strange, mysterious spell 

That links my very soul to thine, 
And makes my inmost being thrill 

With feelings I cannot define ? 
Is it that we were kindred once — 

Twin-born of heaven before our birth- 
That thus our wandering spirits seek 

To reunite again on earth ? 

Oh ! while the life-blood courses warm 

Within my heart, 'twill throb for thee 
No time nor distance can impair 

Our mystic bond of sympathy ; 
For love like ours can never die : 

It triumphs over death and time, 
And, reaching its great source at last. 

Will live eternal and sublime. 



LINES 

TO MISS NARCISSA P. SAUNDERS, OF MELROSE, 

I LOVE the beauty of thy fair young face- 

Thy dove-like eyes, 
Wherein a soul of purity and grace 

All dreaming lies. 
As if it just had floated softly down 

From Paradise. 



LINES. Its 

I love to gaze upon thy beauteous form 

Of perfect mould, 
And watch as o'er thy teeth of living pearls 

Bright lips unfold, 
Breathing sweet thoughts, that ever, fairy-like, 

Turn into gold. 

Oh, beautiful thou art ! — no poet's dream 

Shows one more fair. 
And in my heart thine image will be shrined 

With all most dear ; 
Still shall thy memory, like some holy thing, 

Be cherished there. 

Sweet, lovely girl, may grief and care be far 

From thy pure heart, 
And every blessing earth can give be thine. 

Or love impart, 
And wisdom, virtue, ever shield thee still 

From sorrow's dart. 

And never may thy dearest ties to earth, 

Like mine, be riven, 
But faith and peace, as angel guides, to thee 

Through life be given, 
And hope's bright star still light thee on, e'en to 

The gates of heaven. 

16 



It 4 CLARA'S POEMS. 



THE MUSIC OF NATUEE. 

I HEAR a low, sweet music 

In eyery thing around : 
The autumn leaves, that sadly float 

With melancholy sound. 
Seem sighing for the beauty 

That has perished since their birth, 
For the gorgeous robes of summer. 

The glory of the earth. 

The wintry winds are wailing 

Amid the leafless trees ; 
Like sad thoughts of the past 

They mingle with the breeze, — 
Those wind-harps of Creation, 

Their music is sublime, 
Pure, holy inspiration. 

For angels keep the time. 

The skies are scrolls of music. 

The stars the characters ; 
And their ceaseless chimes are ringing 

Amid celestial spheres. 
Oh I when shall my freed spirit. 

In worlds of fadeless bliss, 
Hear the music of the angels, 

Of which I've dreamed in this ? 



ON SEEING A PORTRAIT. 175 



ON SEEING A PORTRAIT 

THAT BORE RESEMBLANCE TO A BELOVED SISTER, WHO DIED 
VERY SUDDENLY, 

My own sweet Mary, as I gaze 

On this fair youthful face, 
Each well-remembered lineament 

Of thine I seem to trace. 

Once more I meet the loving glance 

Of thy soft, azure eyes, 
Once more I see thy beauteous form, 

Though in the grave it lies. 

And oh ! I long to press those lips 
That smile so like thine own, 

And almost pause to hear thy voice. 
And thy laugh's low silvery tone. 

Yet all in vain ! this 'semblance mute 
But mocks my burning tears. 

Still smiles, unconscious of my grief, 
Unmoved my anguish hears. 

My angel sister I years have flown 
Since death forced us to part. 

Yet still thy every look and tone 
Is treasured in my heart. 



116 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And memory now as vividly 
Recalls that mournful hour 

When last I gazed on thy sweet face, 
My pale and blighted flower I 



THE DEATH OF GENERAL JACKSON. 

PASSING, not long since, by the last resting place of that grand 
old "chieftain," who, if not "first" is second "in the hearts 
of his countrymen," my thoughts reverted to the scenes of other 
days, and my soul was sad within me, as memory dwelt upon the 
struggles, sacrifices, and triumphs of the wonderful man who sleeps 
so calm and silent, while such mighty events are convulsing the 
world around him, and while even the land of his birth, which his 
indomitable valor saved from a foreign foe, seems almost again in 
the invader's grasp, aided and abetted by her own degenerate sons. 

Alas! I almost imagined I could see the tall form of the glorious 
old patriot, towering in his wrath above the dense foliage which o'er- 
shadows his tomb, his white locks floating in the morning breeze, 
sternly hurling, "by the eternal!" his bitter denunciations on those 
base recreants who, for the sake of booty, would desecrate their own 
fair land, and break that sacred chain of union whose every link 
was cemented by the heart's best blood of their gallant sires; and, 
calling on his countrymen by all those dear and holy memories, to 
rise in their strength and face their invaders once more. 

And then, busy fancy portrayed again the sad "funeral pomp," 
when, with mufiied drum and martial tread, they laid him down to 
rest by his first and last love — his pure, true-hearted "Rachel." 
The following imperfect lines were the result: — - 



THE DEATH OF GENERAL JACKSON. Ill 

Ay, mourn our country's gallant chief, 

Whose warfare now is o'er; 
Against a fierce, invading foe 

He'll lead the charge no more. 

Nor clarion's peal, nor cannon's roar, 

Can break his dreamless sleep ; 
No more his sword at freedom's call 

Shall from its scabbard leap. 

For palsied now's that mighty hand, 

And dim that eagle eye; 
No squadrons charge at his command, 

Though martial forms are nigh. 

And hoary heads are bowed with grief, 

And hearts with anguish thrill, 
As they gaze their last on their brave old chief, 

So rigid, pale, and still. 

And every brow is clothed in gloom, 

As with slow and solemn tread 
They bear him to the silent tomb. 

The noblest of the dead ; 

With his country's banner for his pall. 

With freedom's stars inwrought; 
For the warrior's shroud should ever be 

The flag 'neath which he fought. 
16* 



Its Clara's poems. 

There let him rest by her he loved, 
His pure and gentle wife ; 

United they should be in death, 
Who ever were through life. 

Then mourn the hero patriot gone, 
While on the scroll of fame 

"Columbia's" grateful sons inscribe 
Their "Jackson's" deathless name. 



THE DOVE OF CAMPBELL'S HILL. 

Sweet dove, with each returning Spring 

Thy plaintive tones I hear, 
And sad and mournful are the thoughts 

That waken memory's tear ; 
For as I list thy low, soft strain, 

I seem in every breath 
To hear a gentle voice again 

That's long been hushed in death. 

A fair young face once more appears 

With smiling, sunny brow ; 
Mine eyes are dimmed with burning tears- 

Where is that dear one now ? 
Ay I where is she who paused so oft 

With me upon this hill. 
To catch thy low, sweet melody ? 

Alas! now pale and stil], 



THE DOVE OF CAMPBELL'S HILL. 1^9 

That lovely form sleeps low in death ; 

Hushed is that young heart's glee ; 
While all alone I wander here, 

To mourn, sweet bird, with thee, 
For one as artless as the fawn, 

As gentle as the dove, 
The pride, the joy of many hearts — 

None knew her but to love. 

Her voice, 'twas tender, low, and sweet 

As zephyr's gentlest sigh, 
And all her soul's pure truthfulness 

Beamed from her soft, dark eye. 
But, ah ! her pilgrimage was brief 

In this dark world of pain ; 
God saw she was too pure for earth, 

And called her home again. 

And now, when dewy Spring returns, 

Arrayed in all her pride, 
I love to pause and fancy still 

That dear one's by my side. 
Oh! there are many birds whose notes 

The groves with music fill, 
But none can be so dear to me 

As the dove of Campbell's Hill. 



180 CLARA'S POEMS. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON BETURNING TO NASHVILLE, DURING THE PROGRESS 
MADE IN BUILDING THE CAPITOL. 

Once more I stand on Campbell's Hill, 

Thy song, sweet dove, to hear ; 
But, ah ! what change hath time and man 

Wrought in one little year ! 

That modest mansion* is erased. 
Once " Lowered" amid the grove; 

The shrubs and flowers are all defaced — 
And where art thou, sweet dove ? 

Hath the workman's din, thou timid thing. 

Frightened thee far away. 
To some lone wilderness of shade. 

To breathe thy plaintive lay? 

Dost thou, too, feel like me, poor bird. 

When doomed afar to roam — 
Though other scenes may fairer be, 

No place is still like home ? 

Then, oh I return once more, sweet dove, 

Where freedom's halls arise ; 
Brood with the glorious bird of Jove, 

O'er the councils of the wise I 



* The former residence of the late Judge Campbell. 



MY IDEAL. 181 



Where the eloquence of Cicero 
The patriot's heart shall thrill, 

As the wisdom of the brave and free 
Echoes from Campbell's Hill, 



'^0r 



MY IDEAL 

"Thy songs, thy fame, are all my heart hath known." — Amklia. 

And have we met? Do I, indeed, behold thee, 

Thou bright ideal, worshiped many a year, 
Whose image, shrined within my heart, was ever 

Guarded with all a miser's jealous care ? 
My star of hope, that shone with radiant splendor 

Above the weaves of life's tempestuous sea, 
O'er which my spirit, like the lone dove, wandered 

Until it met a kindred soul in thee I 

Deep in my heart the sacred fire was burning, 

A vestal flame the world might never see — 
A lute, whose gushing music none could waken, 

Until its spirit-chords were swept by thee. 
Like some bright gem within the dark mine shrouded, 

Like some sealed fount, deep hidden from the eye. 
O'er which the careless foot is daily passing, 

Unconscious of the sparkling treasures nigh: 

So slept my heart, while round me gently breathing, 
Low music -tones fell softly on mine ear. 

Melting in such delicious dreams of rapture, 
That well I knew thy spirit lingered near; 



182 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And all unstrung my long-neglected lyre 

Slept, cold to love and hope's enchanting strain, 

Till, with a spark of pure Promethean fire, 
You woke its chords to life and song again. 



TO AMELIA. 

If I could be like this sweet breeze. 

That fans my feverish brow, 
I would be kissing thy soft cheek, 

Amelia dearest, now ; 
Or, like those pure, white, fleecy clouds. 

That float so soft along. 
Gaze down into thy dark-blue eyes. 

And breathe my soul in song. 

And had I wings like those bright birds, 

That sing so blithe and gay, 
I soon would fold them by thy side. 

This glorious summer day, 
And whisper many a loving word, 

Though we are far apart, 
That still should keep my "memory green" 

In thy pure, gentle heart. 

But, dearest girl, my thoughts have wings — 

They wander wild and free — 
And swift they've flown this summer morn, 

Bearing my love to thee. 



"FORGET iME NOT." 183 

And they shall breathe their gentle song — 
When years, perchance, have fled — 

At morning's flush, at dewy eve. 
When I am with the dead. 



"FORGET ME NOT." 

"Forget thee !" I shall never ! 

Nor thy first, pure, timid kiss — 
How it thrilled each nerve with rapture, 

And my throbbing heart with bliss ! 
For if our souls are ever 

Subdued by love's sweet power, 
'Tis when we feel the pressure 

Of a dear one's lips to ours. 

And I sometimes dream I see thee, 

As in those blissful hours, 
When life was bright with sunshine. 

And our path was strewed with flowers. 
But, alas I the sunshine darkened. 

And the flowers were blighted soon ; 
Yet their fragrance sweetly lingers 

Like the balmy breath of June. 

And years have passed like shadows, 

And we are severed now, 
And care hath left its impress 

Upon thy lofty brow ; 



184 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Yet T love thee still as fondly, 
And my heart responds to thine, 

As when first I felt thy glowing lip 
Pressed fervently to mine. 



TO ADA IN HEAVEN. 

When the night dews are falling 

On valley and lea, 
Thy spirit seems calling 

In soft tones to me ; 
For I cannot forget thee, 

Though happier thou art, 
Nor cease to mourn for thee. 

While life warms my heart. 

Thou wast lovely and pleasant — 

So graceful thy mien ! 
Thy lips, like two rosebuds, 

With snow-drops between ; 
And thy long, glossy ringlets 

I've twined in my pride — 
Oh ! the clods of the valley 

Their soft luster hide. 

The stars now are gleaming 

Amid the blue sky ; 
'Twas thus they were beaming 

The night thou didst die, — 



TO ADA IN HEAVEN. 185 

When the spirit was yearning 

For heaven, thy home, 
And thy pale lips were murm'ring, 

"My Saviour, now come !" 

My sweet, gentle daughter, 

As I sit thus alone, 
I seem to hear ever 

Thy last loving tone, 
Whisp'ring softly, *'Dear mother, 

Oh ! meet with me where 
There is no more parting, 

JSfo sorrow, nor care." 

The winter snows lightly 

Above thee are spread. 
And the summer dews nightly 

Fall on thy green bed ; 
And the heart that adored thee 

Bends o'er thee to weep, 
When thy loved star at evening 

Looks down on thy sleep. 

Oh 1 when shall I meet thee, 

My pure, blighted flower ? 
When life's cords are loos'ning, 

At that solemn hour 
May thine be the pinions 

To waft me above, 
To join the redeemed in their 

Anthems of love. 

n 



186 CLARA'S POEMS. 



LINES, 

AFTER HEARING DR. MACKAY's BEAUTIFUL LECTURE ON POETRY 

AND SONG. 

Some hearts are like a harp that's waked 

Alone by touch divine — 
So thou hast thrilled one trembling chord, 

O stranger bard, in mine. 

I, too, have felt that living flame 

Glowing within my soul, 
The visions of an inner world, 

That earth could not control. 

The thoughts, the feelings, all too deep 

For language to define — 
The gushings from a thousand founts, 

Of origin divine. 

I, too, have felt the thrilling strains 

That sang of chivalry — 
And oft wept o'er the sweet romance 

Of love and mystery. 

And in my heart the gentle flame 

Is not extinguished yet ; 
O'er many a soul-entrancing dream 

It lingers with regret. 



LINES, 187 

The spirit of sweet poesy- 
Is breathing everywhere — 

Wreathing, with many a glorious smile, 
A garland rich and rare. 

She twines it round the brow of youth, 

Bright with immortal flowers, 
That still retain their vividness 

In life's maturer hours. 

She makes the cold and sluggish heart 

To noble deeds aspire, 
And warms and animates the soul 

With true Promethean fire. 

And though dark clouds may oft obscure 

Our sky of hope and love, 
She spans the Iris o'er the storm, 

And wings our soul above. 



ISS CLARA'S rOEMS. 



THOUGHTS 

CI UGGESTED by the miniature of little Boyd, and respectfully in- 
L3 scribed to his sorrowing mother, Mrs. Lizzie B. Williams, of 
Woodlawn, Tennessee. 

Beautiful babe ! on his marble brow 
The seraph's kiss seems lingering now ; 
And the silken fringe of his soft, dark eyes 
Seems raised in a loving, glad surprise; 
While the coral lips, like a elefted rose, 
Are smiling still in their sweet repose. 

See ! pure and white on his dimpled breast 
His tiny hands, like the snow-flakes, rest. 
As if clasped in joy when the golden glow 
Of the opening heaven fell soft below 
On his dying face, and the Saviour smiled 
A welcome home to his sinless child. 

Then, fair young mother, thy weeping cease : 
On this cherub brow lies the seal of peace, 
For sin cannot mar, nor death erase 
One charm of beauty from this sweet face ; 
Yet 'tis but the casket — the priceless gem 
Is shining in God's own diadem. 



LITTLE SAMMY'S ADDRESS. 189 



LITTLE SAMMY'S ADDRESS. 

Amid this scene of youthful joy, 
1 come, a little orphan boy. 
Ye generous friends and patrons dear, 
To thank you for the tender care 
You have bestowed with gentle art, 
To cheer the friendless orphan's heart. 

Look on those little ones to-night. 
Whose eyes are sparkling with delight — 
They once were desolate and sad, 
With none to soothe or make them glad ; 
No loving mother on them smiled, 
No father blessed the lonely child. 
But helpless, friendless they were left, 
Of every earthly hope bereft, 
Until you came with pitying voice. 
And bade each orphan's heart rejoice. 

You dried their bitter tears of grief, 
You gave each little one relief, 
You gave them teachers, parents, home, 
And now no more they friendless roam, 
But bless the noble and the fair, 
Who listened to the orphan's prayer, 
And gathered with a bounteous hand 
This little smiling happy band. 
17* 



190 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And may the little children's Friend, 
To whom their grateful prayers ascend, 
Make life to you one scene of joy, 
Thus prays your little orphan boy. 



"CLARA'S" THANKS FOR THE UNFINISHED SERENADE. 

'TwAS midnight — lonely, witching hour ! — 

Deep silence reigned profound, 
When o'er my sleeping spirit stole 

A soft, delicious sound. 
'Twas low and sweet as summer winds 

Amid the dew^y flowers ; 
Or like the tinkling melody 

Of gentle April showers. 

Entranced I listened. Fairy forms 

Seemed floating through my room, 
Diffusing, from their starry wings, 

A radiance and perfume. 
Dissolved in ecstasy, my soul 

From that sweet dream awoke. 
Just as, alas ! with mournful twang, 

The fiddle-strings all broke! 



EVENING MUSINGS. 191 



EVENING MUSINGS. 

How glorious, 'mid those crimson clouds, 

The sun fades in the west ! 
'Tis thus, methinks, the dying saint 

Sinks to his peaceful rest. 
And as the radiant stars come forth 

So softly, one by one, 
They bring sweet visions of the past — 

Of loved ones that are gone. 

How oft, alas ! at this sweet hour, 

When twilight vails the plain, 
I've listened to that gentle voice 

I ne'er shall hear again ; 
And as T gaze on those bright orbs, 

My heart will strangely thrill. 
For I think that some who loved me here, 

Are watching o'er me still. 



192 CLARA'S POEMS. 



LONELY MUSINGS. 

'Tis an Autumn night — so calm, so clear, 
The very winds to my list'ning ear 
Seemed lulled to sleep by the rippling streams. 
Whose wavelets dance in the silvery beams 
Of the gentle moon, as she folds to-night 
The slumbering earth in her radiant light, 
While the twinkling stars 'mid the azure glow 
Look lovingly down on all below. 

Oh, beautiful night ! would my heart could be 

Holy, and quiet, and calm like thee ; 

Could cast from it every grief and care 

That fetters my soaring spirit here, 

That darkens with bitter and ceaseless strife 

The light of an inner and holier life, 

Dimming the hope, that for weary years 

Hath shone through a mournful mist of tears. 

And crushed back its yearnings pure and high 

'Till I've prayed in my stricken soul to die, 

To rest in the quiet grave in peace, 

Where the weary and worn from their labors cease, 

Where no dreams from its lonely sleep will start. 

As they do to-night, from my bleeding heart I 



u 



o 



to 




WHY DO I LOVE TUEE ? 193 



WHY DO I LOVE THEE? 

Why do I love thee ? Ask the timid blossom 

That opes its beauty to the sun's first ray, 
And breathes its fragrant life out on his bosom, 

And dies in rapture ere the close of day. 
So would my heart, its inmost leaves unfolding, 

Reveal what careless eyes must never see. 
Give all its sweet, and deep, and pure devotion, 

Though like the flower it die in loving thee. 

Why do I love thee ? Ask the calm lake, sleeping 

Waveless and still amid the silent night, 
Until a gleam of starlight, softly falling. 

Breaks it, all trembling, quivering with delight. 
Thus lay my soul, all quiet and undreaming 

Of its wild hopes, its passionate desires. 
Until thy spirit like a starbeam wakened 

Into a brilliant flame its smouldering fires. 

And wilt thou love me, thy pale, trembling flower. 

That opes at morn, all bathed in dewy tears. 
Thy lonely lake amid the wildwood mirrored, 

Which only thy bright image ever wears ? 
And will our souls, in pure and sweet communion. 

Thus live and love till life's wild dreams are past. 
Then meet and consummate that holy union. 

Which shall through heaven's eternal ages last? 



194 Clara's poems. 



HAST THOU FORGOT ME? 

" Can you forget me ? I am not relying 

On plighted vows — alas ! I know their worth ; 
Man's faith to woman is a trifle, dying 
Upon the very breath that gave it birth." — L. E. L. 

Hast thou forgot me ? Were thy vows but seeming, 
Breathed in those low, deep passion-tones of thine, 

Whose music haunts my soul awake or dreaming, 
Thou for whose presence day and night I pine ? 

Hast thou forgot me ? I have loved thee only 
As thou wilt ne'er be loved on earth again ; 

And watched and waited for thee, sad and lonely, 
Within our "vine-clad bower," but all in vain. 

Canst thou forget me ? Like a timid blossom 
That bloomed unnoticed till it caught thine eye, • 

'Twas gathered, pressed awhile unto thy bosom, 
Then cast aside, alas ! to fade and die. 

Oh ! if another in thy soul is worshiped. 

Another's image on love's altar set, 
If thou hast bowed unto a fairer idol. 

Then teach me how I may, like thee, forget. 

Canst thou forget me ? Will not memory linger 
O'er the sweet past, and thy heart strangely thrill. 

As in thy dreams a mournful voice shall whisper. 
Thou may'st forget — but, oh, I love thee still ! 



IF WE MUST PART. 195 



IF WE MUST PART! 

" Oh ! magic of a tone and word, 
LoTed all too long and well; 
I cannot close my heart and eai' 
Against their faithless spell." — L. E. L. 

If we must part, beloved one, 

Speak as you've spoken now — 
Low, soft, and sweet, and press your lips 

Once more upon my brow ; 
And clasp my trembling hand in thine ; 

Though wild its pulses thrill 
Beneath thy touch, as this sad heart 

Throbs yet more wildly still. 

Oh ! how thy gentle accents fall 

Like music on mine ear ; 
Each tone vibrates within my soul, 

So mournful, sweet, and clear. 
I wish, sometimes, I could forget. 

And coldly turn, like thee. 
And worship at some other shrine — 

But that can never be. 

For in my heart thy memory lives. 
Though mine to thee will seem 

But as the ''Lotus-shadow" cast 
Upon thy life's clear stream, 



196 Clara's poems. 

Above whose tranquil waves may Hope's 

Bright star forever shine, 
And light thy home, in future years, 

With love as pure as mine. 



MAY DAY. 

♦ 

Sweet voices hail thy coming, May, 
And fairy hands thy garlands twine. 

And youthful hearts with joy unite 
To lay them on thy vernal shrine. 

Soft zephyrs kiss the opening rose, 
And waft its balmy breath along, 

And every flower-laden tree 

Resounds with Flora's choral song. 

The clouds like white-winged cherubs float 

Amid the azure-tinted sky ; 
And the tiny brook with its low, sweet note 

Is murmuring in its gladness by. 

The wild rose blooms on the dewy slope ; 

And deep in the shady valley green, 
Half hid beneath the fallen leaves, 

Is the modest, blue-eyed violet seen. 



CHILDLESS, 197 

Ah ! Spring is like our morn of life, 
When all is fresh, and bright, and gay ; 

Beguiled by Hope's enchanting song, 
We dream our joys will ne'er decay. 

But soon, alas I \Ye wake and find 
Pale Autumn gathering in its gloom; 

And Death, like Winter, blights our buds 
Of sweetest promise ere they bloom. 

Yet Faith still whispers, "Dry thy tears, 
Heaven will again thy lost restore ; 

And where no Wintry Death can come 
They'll bud and bloom for evermore. 

''For she,* who was thy joy, thy pride. 
Thy flower that withered ere its prime, 
Who last May day was by thy side, 
Is blooming in a holier clime." 



CHILDLESS. 

She sits alone ; yet memory rolls, 
In burning waves, across her brow ; 

That home, whose merry echoes rang 
With childish mirth, is silent now. 



* My only daughter. 
18 



198 CLARA'S POEMS. 

She sits alone; no cherub form 
Is softly bending at her knee, 

Its lovely face upturned in awe, 
As 'twould some angel watcher see. 

No rosy lip is pressed to hers, 

No arni is proudly round her thrown ; 

Like raindrops fall her blinding tears ; 
No sound is heard, except her moan. 

She weeps alone, and slumber falls 
Upon her aching eyes at last ; 

She sleeps, and lo ! her soul is free. 
Her wild regrets — her sorrows past. 

Far, through the boundless realms of space. 
On angel wings she takes her flight ; 

The burning stars are left behind ; 
She sees the pearly gates of light. 

She hears the soft, melodious strain 
That from angelic harps resounds ; 

She sees her loved and lost ones float, 
With snowy robes and golden crowns. 

They speak in tones earth never heard, 
In accents not for mortal ear, — 
''Sweet mother, weep no more, for thus 
We wait to hail thy entrance here." 



THE wanderer's RETURN. 199 



She wakes, yet never from that hour 
Was heard that mother to complain 

She waits her Lord's appointed time 
To meet her angel babes again. 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

I'm home again, and oh, how sweet 

The words that fondly greet me, 
When those I hold most dear on earth 

With smiles and kisses meet me ! 
I've met with naught that thrilled my soul 

With such exquisite pleasure. 
As the love that welcomes me, and tell 

I am their dearest treasure. 

I've mingled with the busy throng, 

And strangers have caressed me. 
And many a kindly look and tone 

In other lands have blessed me ; 
And friendly hands have clasped my own, 

And friendship's vows were spoken, 
That bound true hearts in golden chains 

That never can be broken. 

But in my soul, when all seemed gay, 

There was a secret yearning ; 
For memory pictured those dear ones 

Who sighed for my returning. 



200 CLARA'S POEMS. 

But ah ! there's one whose fond embrace 
At home no more can meet me ; 

But well I know her angel smile 
The first in heaven shall greet me. 



THE LADY TO HER CHOSEN KNIGHT. 

I 'VE chosen thee my own true knight ; 

Let this thy motto be, 
Through all the years of coming time, 

"Love and fidelitv." 

And stainless as the snowy scarf 
I 've round thy helmet twined. 

My memory shall remain through life. 
Within thy spirit shrined. 

This little braid of raven hair, 

Which I to thee have given. 
Shall be a talisman, to link 

Thy heart to mine in heaven. 

I 've twined it with this evergreen. 

Amid thy crest to wave, 
A token that my love survives, 

Unchanged, beyond the grave. 



SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 201 

And should fate sever us on earth, 

'Twill soothe, 'mid all thy care, 
To know the sympathy we feel 

Will still unite us here. 



SABBATH MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 
Sweet Sabbath morn ! the snowy clouds 

That gleam 'mid yon soft azure sky. 
The whispering breeze, the dove's low moan, 

The rich perfume that's floating by, — 

All breathe of peace and love to me, 
As nature wakes in joyous strains, 

And pours her matin hymn of praise 
From verdant hills and dewy plains. 

On every flowery shrub and tree 

Are glittering gems of georgeous hue ; 

And fairy hands o'er all have thrown 
A silvery web of morning dew. 

All, all is beautiful ! oh, why 

Should earthly care or grief be mine — 

And why, amid a scene so fair. 

Should this poor, wandering heart repine ? 

Then I will strive to be resigned ; 

A tranquil joy may fill my breast. 
For soon I'll hail a happier morn, 

A Sabbath of eternal rest. 

18* 



202 CLARA'S POEMS. 



WHY SHOULD I SING? 

" Sing on, thou sad, sweet angel, 
Where'er thy bark is driven; 
The echo thou hast waked on earth 

Will answer thee in heayen." — Tomeja. 

Why should I wake my harp again, 

When every trembling tone 
Would be a requiem for my life's 

Sweet hopes forever flown ? 
'Twould tell thee of a weary heart, 

Oppressed with many cares, 
And if it woke a joyous lay, 

'Twould quickly melt in tears. 

For I have lived to know the love 

I deemed so pure, estranged ; 
The trusting friendship of my youth 

By time and falsehood changed. 
Then ask me not for cheerful strains ; 

My songs of mirth are o'er. 
For joy lies dead within my heart. 

To sing on earth no more. 

The star that once in radiance bright 
Above my pathway shone, 

Hath paled its pure and holy light, 
And I am left alone : 



TO ''CECIL." 203 

Alone to suffer and conceal 

The keen envenomed dart; 
To soar, a wounded bird, and sing, 

While death is in my heart. 

And yet it soothes my troubled soul 

Sometimes to touch its chords, 
To bid my sorrows find relief 

In softly thrilling words ; 
To find some kindred heart that beats 

Responsive to my own, 
To feel that on life's dreary road 

I am not quite alone. 



TO "CECIL," 

OF VKRSAILLES, MISSOURI, IN REPLY TO HIS BEAUTIFUL LINES TO 
"CLARA," IN THE PLATTE CITY ATLAS. 

As some lone pilgrim, 'mid the desert straying. 

Faint and bewildered by the sun's fierce ray. 
Hears on the breeze some secret fountain playing, 

Finds some sweet flower upspringing in his way, 
Thus my sad heart, so long in sorrow pining 

For sweet communion with a kindred mind, 
Felt, as I read, my spirit tendrils twining 

In mystic clasp, oh unknown friend, with thine. 



204 Clara's poems. 

I love the beautiful ; my soul Is ever thrilling 

With music from a harp unseen, divine ; 
Wind, wave, and leaf to me are ceaseless calling, 

In tones sublime, from nature's holiest shrine. 
Oh I there are thoughts and aspirations welling 

Up from the spirit depths we cannot name — 
How few, alas ! can feel and comprehend them. 

And fewer still keep pure the heavenly flame ! 

I love to wander in the dim old forest. 

To hear, far off, the dove's low, plaintive coo ; 
To dream I'm on the silver cloudlets floating, 

With sister angels, through a sea of blue. 
On to that world where love and joy forever 

Dwell undivided, free from sorrow's gloom ; 
Where hope and memory weave of rich thought-blossoms 

A fadeless wreath, in Paradise to bloom. 

My soul is sighing to cast off her fetters, 

To fold her weary wings and be at rest 
Beside those crystal streams and bowers of beauty 

Where dwell the spirits of the pure, the blest ; 
For I would fain be like the swan when dying — 

Calm and unmoved amid the careless throng, 
Breathe out my life in one sweet strain of rapture. 

And float to heaven upon the tide of song. 



TO MY HEART. 205 



TO MY HEART. 

Oh I weary, sighing heart, 

Why thus deprest — 
Why like the wandering dove 

Still seeking rest ? 

Thy love has been a dream 

Thou'st seen depart ; 
Swift as a meteor's gleam 

It fled, sad heart I 

Thy hopes of deathless fame, 

Ah ! where are they ? 
The lips that would breathe thy name 

With pride, are clay. 

And thou, poor weary heart, 

Of all bereft. 
Hast but thy broken lute 

And wrecked hopes left. 



206 CLARA'S POEMS. 



MY HEART PALACE. 

My heart's a palace, large and grand, 

With many a jeweled cell, 
Where faithful friends, unchanged by time, 

In matchless beauty dwell. 

The sacred fire Prometheus stole 

Illumes each holy shrine, 
O'er which, in sparkling gems and gold, 

Their names forever shine. 

Though oft the storms of fate arise, 
And life looks dark and drear, 

No clouds obscure these radiant skies, 
'Tis always sunshine here. 

This is my world of art, more rare 

Than Vatican at Rome, — 
God sculptured every image here, 

And crowned with light the dome. 

Here, like a princess proud, at eve 

Within my halls I stray — 
Ope every golden door, and live 

With loved ones far away. 



TO A DISTANT EKIEND. 207 

Here eyes that long have slept in death 

Beam bright on me again, 
And lips, to other ears long mute, 

For me sing love's refrain. 

'Tis thus I live 'mid graceful forms 

That fill my palace heart — 
So fair, that not e'en Raphael's touch 

Could one more charm impart. 



TO A DISTANT FRIEND. 

Once more amid the budding Spring, though in a distant 

clime, 
I waft to thee, on zephyr's wing, another simple rhyme. 
The pale-green leaves are opening, the sky is darkly blue, 
And from the depths of yonder grove floats up the dove's 

faint coo. 
Ah ! many buried memories rise at that low, plaintive 

moan. 
And burning tears suffuse mine eyes, for I, too, am alone. 

And where art thou, my gentle friend ? oh ! would that I 

could be 
A guardian angel by thy side, upon the billowy sea ; 
Could kneel with thee at ancient shrines, and whisper words 

of peace, 
And roam with thee amid the bowers and sunny isles of 

Greece ; 



208 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Could muse upon that classic shore, where Sappho loved 

and died, 
And hear her death song echo o'er that softly murmuring 

tide. 

And when the silvery moonbeams fall on fair Italia's 

plains, 
And light her Coliseum walls and gild her moldering fanes. 
Wilt thou not think how soft they rest upon one cottage 

home, 
And grieve to find thyself amid the marble halls of Rome, 
Where only strangers meet thy gaze, no heart responds to 

thine, 
Nor thrills with rapture at thy praise, as well thou know'st 

does mine ? 

And when thy dark-blue eyes shall close in that fair Orient 
land, 

Where sings the bulbul to the rose, 'mid bowers of Samar- 
cand, 

Wilt thou not dream of trellised vines that round that cot- 
tage cling, 

And deem no music half so sweet as that our mock-birds 
sing ? 

And sigh to think that, far away, across the moonlit sea. 

One faithful heart a vigil keeps, and ever prays for thee ? 



THE FAITHLESS, 209 



THE FAITHLESS-A SONG. 

We met ! and coldly fell thy words 

Upon my listening ear, 
But colder far on this sad heart, 

Where thou art still too dear ; 
No loving smile thy glance illumed. 

But clouded was thy brow ; 
Another's image fills thy soul, 

And I'm forsaken now. 

Oh, faithless one ! when far away, 

'Mid scenes of pleasure bright, 
I mused on thee alone by day, 

And dreamed of thee by night ; 
I never thought a few brief months 

Could thus thy love estrange — 
Ah ! had thy heart been true, like mine, 

Years, years could make no change. 

Thine is a noble, manly form. 

And art might vainly try 
To match the beauty of thy face, 

The luster of thine eye ; 
But oh I the stars, that seeming sleep 

Within the azure sea, 
Have not more mockery in their light 

Than those dark eyes to me. 
19 



210 CLARA'S POEMS. 

For truth, with thee, is but a name, 

And love and honor words — 
Thou ne'er hast felt the sacred flame, 

Nor swept the spirit chords 
That thrilled with ecstasy divine 

The heart bowed to the dust, 
Whose every throb, once truly thine, 

Thou'st paid with cold mistrust. 

Then fare thee well ! — 'tis sad to see 

The wreck of all so dear 
Thus pass, like meteors, swept away 

Forever from our sphere, 
As bright and evanescent too; 

They've but increased the gloom 
Thy falsehood o'er my spirit cast. 

And made my heart a tomb. 



THE STAGE-HORN. 

I LOVE to hear the merry stage-horn, 

As it comes with its soft and mellow tone, 

Borne on the gentle breeze along. 

While mountain and valley re-echo its song 

Of tra-la-lira-lira-lee — 

Oh, the merry stage-horn is dear to me. 



THE STAGE-HORN. 211 

What thougli at a sluggard's race we creep, 

Our pulses anew will throb and leap, 

And each gallant steed will prick up his ears 

Whenever the merry stage-horn he hears 

Playing tra-la-lira-lira-lee — 

The jolly old stage-horn, wild and free. 

And when jolting along o'er some lonely road, 
Afar from any human abode, 
When painful and sadly our thoughts will roam 
To the loved ones left in a distant home. 
Oh, how mournfully pleasing then will be 
The stage-horn's wailing melody ! 

And when at the lonely midnight hour 
The tempest will darkly around us lower, 
When naught but the lightning's flash can illume 
Our dreary road through the forest gloom. 
Thus 'wildered — lost — if we chance to hear 
The stage-horn, we know that a friend is near. 

And oh I how sweet in the calm still night, 
When the moon sheds her soft, pale silvery light, 
And the weary heart in that solemn hour 
Communes with a higher, holier power. 
What buried memories rise again. 
Waked by the stage-horn's plaintive strain ! 

Yet dearer than all to me at last. 

When tired and worn — my journey past — 



212 CLARA'S POEMS. 

It was to know that with anxious ear 
Kind friends were waiting the horn to hear, 
And with glad greetings would quickly come 
To welcome the weary traveler home. 
Then ever dear while I live will be 
The stage-horn's pleasant strains to me. 



'i^- 



LINES, 

ON RECEIVING AN EXQUISITE BOUQUET FROM MISS S. B****StV, 
OF HUNTSVILLE, ALA. 

Flowers, sweet girl, and sent by thee — 

Bright buds all gemmed with pearly dew — 
Ah ! I will prize them as a pledge 

Of friendship tender, warm, and true. 
How beautiful ! They seem to breathe 

The gentle thoughts that fill thy heart, 
And whisper, 'mid their glossy leaves, 

"We come, an offering free from art, 
From one who loves the songs of birds. 

The music of our starry flowers — 
A modest violet, half concealed 

In this sweet mountain vale of ours." 

'Twas thus each tiny fairy bell 

A fragrant message bore to me, 
That shall a sweet "memento" dwell 

Within my heart, fair one, of thee ; 



THE ANNIVERSARY. 213 

And bud and blossom many a year, 

Though every beauteous leaf decay, 
And oft my lonely spirit cheer 

When I am wandering far away. 
And though my thread of life no more 

Again with thine be softly twined, 
Wilt thou not keep one gentle thought 

Of me in thy pure spirit shrined ? 



THE ANNIYERSAKY. 

One little year hath passed away, 

Since with the quiet dead 
I laid thee down, my beautiful, 

Within thy narrow bed. 

Yes, laid thee down to sleep in peace, 

But not upon my breast ; 
For the angel's trump alone can wake 

Thy long and dreamless rest. 

'Twas in the bright, sweet month of June, 

With all its rosy hours ; 
The breeze swept through thy darkened room, 

Rich with the breath of flowers, 

19* 



214 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And lifted thy soft, raven curls, 
And kissed thj feyerish brow ; 

But, ah ! the zephyr's gentle wings 
Cannot disturb them now. 

Death came, an angel robed in light, 

My beautiful, to thee ; 
He pressed his lips to thine one night, 

And whispered, " Come with me ; 

" Come, leave this world of pain and care 
For one of peace and love; 
Seraphic hosts are waiting near. 
To welcome thee above." 

Then o'er thy lovely face there shone 

A pure, refulgent ray. 
Reflected from the seraph wings 

That bore thy soul away. 

And such a smile of faith and hope 
Beamed with thy last low sigh, 

We scarce could deem so fair a thing, 
So beautiful, could die. 

And love will twine, with fondest care, 
When June's sweet roses bloom, 

A dewy garland gemmed with tears. 
And wreathe it round thy tomb. 



FADED FLOWERS. 21 h 



FADED FLOWERS. 

Hast thou forgot the budding flowers 

Thou gav'st as love's first tow ? 
They still recall those blissful hours, 

Though pale and faded now. 
How fondly I received the pledge, 

Yet dreamed not of the smart 
The thorn it bore so well concealed 

Would cause this trusting heart ! 
Yet as an emblem of my life, 

The faded leaves I keep, 
And o'er the hopes they once inspired. 

In sadness oft I weep. 

And must those cherished hopes, alas ! 

Like these sweet blossoms, fade ? 
And will the hand of time ne'er heal 

The wounds its thorns have made ? 
No time nor season can restore 

The bloom and fragrance past, 
Of hopes that were too sweet and pure, 

Too bright for earth, to last; 
Yet when the welcome hand of death 

Shall set my spirit free, 
This fond, devoted heart shall breathe 

Its latest sigh for thee. 



216 CLARA'S POEMS. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. SARAH LEAKE. 

MRS. L. had lived in Nashville for more than forty years. She 
was born in Rockingham County, North Carolina. When very 
young she emigrated with an elder brother to Sumter County, Ten- 
nessee, and, subsequently, was married to John Leake, of Henry 
County, Virginia, whom she survived more than a quarter of a cen- 
tury. Her life was one of sorrow and vicissitude, such as few have 
experienced; but her faith in the mercy and goodness of God was 
undimmed to the last. She died as she had lived for many years, in 
the bright hope of a glorious immortality. She was a faithful and 
pious member of the Christian Church; quiet, unostentatious in her 
manners and deportment, she was much beloved by all who knew her 
modest, domestic worth; for her province lay at home, and beyond 
its quiet precincts she was seldom seen. The loving, self-sacrificing 
mother of twelve children, but three (two sons and one daughter) 
survive to mourn her irreparable loss. May her death be sanctified 
to them, and may they live and die, as she died, the life and death of 
tlie righteous. X. 

She is dead, our loving mother, 

Her pilgrimage is o'er; 
She has gone to meet her loved ones 

Where parting is no more ; 
Fled 's all trace of pain forever 

From her pure and placid brow, 
Grief can dim its beauty never — 

But we have no mother now.' 



ON THE DEATH OP MRS. SARAH LEAKE. 2l7 

The wintry winds are sighing 

Above her pulseless breast, 
Yet no bitter wail of anguish 

Can e'er disturb her rest; 
She received the heavenly token, 

And her soul with rapture thrilled 
Ere the golden bowl was broken, 

Or the heart's bright fountain chilled. 

She is gone to God, and angels 

Are her companions now. 
And a fadeless crown of glory 

Is gleaming on her brow ; 
Yet my heart is sad and lonely, 

And my future life looks drear. 
For 'twas her sweet counsels only 

Could soothe and bless me here. " 

And our homes look dark and dreary, 

Of her cheerful smile bereft, 
And very sad and weary 

Are the children she has left ; 
But we know, though from our circle 

Our brightest jewel's riven, 
The mother we have lost on earth 

We'll find again in heaven. 



218 CLARA'S POEMS. 



MY LAST REaUEST. 

Oh I wrap me not, when I am dead, 

In tlie gliastly winding sheet, 
And bind no kerchief round my head, 

Nor fetter my active feet : 
But let some friend who loves me best 

Comb out my long, dark hair, 
And part the ringlets round my face, 

In the fashion I loved to wear ; 
And robe me in my favorite garb ; 

And let sweet flowers be pressed 
Within my hand, and to my heart. 

When ye lay me down to rest : 
For I would not my friends should turn 

Away with a thrill of fear, 
As they give the last fond look and kiss 

To one in life so dear. 
And lay me down in a quiet spot, 

Beneath some spreading tree, 
Where birds may build their nests and sing 

Their sweetest songs o'er me. 
And let no tears be o'er me shed. 

But the pearly tears of night. 
As the flowers I love weep o'er my bed. 

In the pale moon's silvery light. 



NEW year's eve. 219 

And let no chilling marble rest 

On my heart so warm and true ; 
But the verdant turf be my winding sheet, 

Kept green by the summer dew. 
Thus let me sleep ; and my glad soul, 

On wings of hope and love, 
Shall haste to meet my loved and lost 

In a world of bliss above. 



NEW YEAR'^ EVE. 

Hark I I hear the midnight hour 

Slowly toll a solemn knell. 
And the mournful echoes whisper — 

'"Tis the dying year's farewell.'^ 
Yet there is no change apparent 

In the dark and starless sky, 
But the night-winds seem to murmur- 

" Come and see the old year die." 

And my soul is sadly musing 

On the years I've seen depart 
Ere life's gloomy shadows gathered 

Like a pall around my heart ; 
Ere each link of love was severed, 

Or its gilding worn away, 
When hope's fairy visions lingered 

With my spirit day by day. 



220 Clara's poems. 

And there's many a tearful watcher, 

Who will mourn with me to-night, 
As the past comes floating round them, 

With its radiant dreams of light ; 
When perchance like me they listen 

To sweet voices, soft and dear, 
Murmuring words of fond affection, 

As they hail the glad New Year. 

Now those lips are mute forever; 

All those joyous scenes are o'er; 
Childhood's mirth and youth's sweet laughter 

Echo through my home no more ; 
And my heart to-night is pining 

With its loved and lost to be — 
When will time's slow wheel revolving 

Set my longing spirit free ? 

But hark ! the last low chime is ringing, 

And the matin hymn of morn 
On my ear seems softly falling, 

" Now another year is born ; 
May it prove a year of gladness, 

Healing wounds that time has made, 
Binding up the broken-hearted. 

Mingling sunshine with its shade." 

And pale shadows seem to gather 

Round me as I weep alone, 
Voices of the long departed 

Mingle with the wind's low moan — 



SWEET MEMORIES OF THEE. 221 

Whispering, though by death thus riven 

From thy loving heart with pain, 
We shall greet thee soon in heaven, 

And reclasp love's broken chain. 



SWEET MEMORIES OF THEE. 

When the daylight fadeth softly 

In the golden tinted west, 
And our wandering thoughts and fancies 

Fold their weary wings to rest; 
When the vesper star is smiling 

At her image in the sea. 
Then the zephyr's breath comes laden 

With sweet memories, love, of thee. 

When the misty twilight shadows 

Steal into my quiet room, 
And the fitful firelight flashes 

Strange amid the gathering gloom ; 
Where thy voice, like murmured music. 

Breathed its passion tones to me, 
Ah ! this hour will ever whisper 

Gentle memories, love, of thee. . 

When the midnight moon is beaming 
From her radiant throne above, 

With the burning stars forever, 
In their mystic watch of love ; 
20 



222 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Then my spirit, disencumbered, 

From its daily toil is free, 
And again in shadowy dreamland 

Holds communion, love, with thee. 

Wilt thou meet me then at evening, 

When the daylight disappears. 
And each bud and blossom slumbers. 

Bathed in twilight's dewy tears. 
When sweet " Hesperus " is mirrored 

In "Sewanee's" crystal tide. 
Where we wandered, when you whispered. 

Wilt thou be my "spirit bride ?" 

Oh, meet me thus ! although our pathway 

Here on earth lies far apart, 
Severed still, yet still united, 

Mine in soul I know thou art; 
Soon, like pilgrims, we shall enter 

That celestial city, where 
Soul with kindred soul shall mingle ; 

Dearest, will you meet me there ? 



DO YOU REMEMBER ME? 223 



DO YOU REMEMBER ME? 

Yes, when the twilight dews are softly falling 

Upon the flowers, at quiet evening time, 
When bird and bee are to each other calling 

Their last good night in many a pleasant chime ; 
And when pale Luna o'er the scene is rising, 

With silvery radiance gilding tower and tree, 
And gathering all her starry gems around her, 

Friend of my soul, then I remember thee. 

And when at midnight's lonely hour I'm kneeling 

Before the throne of grace, in fervent prayer, 
I find a balm my wounded spirit healing, 

For, ah ! I feel that thou art with me there. 
No time nor distance kindred souls can sever; 

Holy and pure shall their communion be : 
Then doubt me not ; while life shall last — forever, 

Friend of my soul, will I remember thee. 



224 CLARA'S POEiMS. 



ON THE DEATH OP MRS. AMELIA G. WELBY, 

OF LOUISVILLE, KY. 

Hushed is the harp whose magic strain 

ThrlHed gentle hearts with soft emotion — 
Its fairy chords shaH ne'er again 

Breathe forth the spirit's pure devotion ; 
And never more her free, wild notes 

Shall soothe us with their melting numbers,- 
Our sweetest song-bird of the West 

Within the tomb now silent slumbers. 

She died just as the dewy Spring- 
Smiled radiant with its buds and flow'rs ; 

Her angel spirit plumed its wing, 

And sought a lovelier world than ours. 

Such beings of immortal song 
Are only for a season given. 

And now recalled, with seraph bands 
She strikes her golden harp in heaven. 

Oh ! make her grave where " Summer-birds"* 
May build their nests amid the flow'rs, 

And sing her requiem evermore 
At dewy morn and twilight hours ; 

* Amelia's Poems. 



ON VISITING MY DAUGHTER'S GRAVE. 225 

And where the star she loved may beam 

Above her lowly place of rest, 
And kindred hearts weep softly o'er 

The sweetest song-bird of the West. 



ON VISITING MY DAUGHTER'S GMYE ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

I'm weeping o'er thy grave, my child, 

On this thy natal day, 
And thinking on the hour when first 

Within my arms thou lay, 
And how in infancy thou smiled 

My every grief away. 

And oh ! how fondly I retrace 

Thine every look and tone, 
Thy childish glee, thy maiden grace. 

When thou wert all my own. 
And the beauty of thy fair young face. 

Where hope and joy then shone. 

But now those days are past and gone ; 

Thy smile for me is o'er ; 
Yet oft I listen for thy voice. 

That I shall hear no more — 
For, ah 1 no time nor season can 

My Adeline restore ! 
20* 



226 CLARA'S POEMS. 

For death hath dhumed thy sparkling eyes, 
And touched with pale decay 

Thy lovely form, and thou hast passed 
From all earth's cares away : 

And we have laid thee here with tears, 
To sleep with kindred clay. 

And have I lived to deck thy tomb 
With flowers once loved by thee ? 

And water every tiny bud 
"With tears of memory ? 

Alas ! I fondly thought my child 
Would plant them over me. 

And now I'm kneeling all alone 

Upon the dewy sod 
That wraps thy form — yet faith beholds 

Thy spirit with its God ; 
And with a soul resigned I bow 

Beneath his chast'ning rod. 

Then, dear one, sleep, till Christ shall come 
And break death's heavy chain. 

And call thee to that blissful home 
Where we shall meet again. 

And with the just made perfect, through 
Eternity shall reign. 



ON PARTING WITH MY ONLY DAUGHTER. 227 



ON PARTING WITH MY ONLY DAUGHTER. 

They teH me not to weep for thee, 

Sole daughter of my heart, 
As if it were an idle thing 

From one so loved to part ; 
As if thine image e'er could leave 

My thoughts, by night or day ; 
Tain, vain the effort not to grieve, 

When thou art far away I 

They teU me thou wilt still be blessed, 

My beautiful, my own ; 
That fondly thou wilt be caressed 

By friends till now unknown. 
Ay, kindly thee may strangers greet. 

And bland their words may be; 
But will their voice e'er sound so sweet 

As mine, my child, to thee ? 

They say that health again will breathe 

Upon thy faded brow ; 
Restore the roses to thy cheek 

That is so pallid now. 
Oh were it thus, it would my heart 

Of half its grief divest; 
I would not murmur or complain, 

If thou, my child, wert blessed. 



228 Clara's poems. 

How everything around recalls 

Thee, dearest, to my view : 
There hangs the rose against the wall, 

Thy fairy fingers drew ; 
And every little flower thou'st left 

Is nursed with anxious care. 
And as the tiny buds come forth 

They're moistened with a tear. 

How soft the dewy breath of Spring 

Is stealing through the air ; 
The insect tribe are on the wing. 

And flowers are everywhere ! 
How sweet to me they all would seem 

If thou, my child, wert nigh. 
To watch with me the sun's first beam 

Illume the eastern sky ! 

The birds their choral music hymn, 

The dove's low moan is heard — 
How many pure and holy thoughts 

Within the heart are stirred ! 
But where is she, who loved so well 

The sad, yet pleasing strain ? 
Oh when will time or seasons bring 

My Ada home again ? 

For well I know, though far you roam. 
Still, like the wandering dove, 

Thy weary heart will pine for home 
And a mother's changeless love. 



A WISH. 229 

Yet should we meet no more in this 

Cold world of grief and care, 
There is a brighter land of bliss — 

My daughter, meet me there ! 

A WISH. 

'Tis not in gloomy winter, 

When clouds obscure the sky, 
And nature's tinged with sadness, 

That I would Avish to die ; 
But in the pleasant spring-time, 

With its soft and balmy air, 
Amid green trees and flowers, 

The hills and valleys fair. 

Nor would I die forsaken 

By those I've loved on earth, 
Whose smiles alone could waken 

All I have known of mirth ; 
I would have those around me. 

When comes the parting strife, 
Whose love the most hath bound me, 

And soothed my mournful life ; 

With the hands of friends to raise me, 

And looks of holy love ; 
And the prayers of faith to bless me. 

And waft mv soul above : 



230 Clara's poems. 

With those I love before me, 
And a bright and sunny sky, 

And all nature smiling o'er me, — 
'Tis thus I wish to die. 

And in some silent valley, 

Where flowerets ever bloom 
Untrodden by the thoughtless, 

I wish my lowly tomb. 
Then, if some gentle mourner. 

Some friend to mem'ry dear, 
Should view my narrow dwelling, 

And drop a kindly tear, — 

Tell him in peaceful slumbers 

I pass the dreamless day. 
Till the archangel's trumpet 

Shall wake my sleeping clay; 
Then, robed in life and beauty. 

Shall this weak body rise, 
To meet my great Redeemer, 

My Father in the skies. 



THE DEATH OF THE GIFTED ONE. 231 

THE DEATH OF THE GIFTED ONE. 

The harp of tlie gifted now is still, 
Its trembliug chords no longer thrill 
Beneath her touch ; pale, silent now 
She sleeps, for death is on her brow. 
This world to her was full of grief. 
Her joys, like angel's visits, brief: 
But now 'tis past, and all her woes 
Within the tomb have found repose ; 
Now envy's poisoned shafts are vain — 
They cannot wound her peace again. 
Nor pierce that heart so kind and true, 
That never guile or malice knew; 
But kindred souls will mourn her long, 
The glorious, gifted child of song. 

Yet weep not, loved ones left behind. 

O'er her pale dust. The immortal mind 

Unfettered soars — but not alone — 

With sister seraphs round the throne ; 

A starry crown of life she wears ; 

A golden harp unstained by tears 

Is sounding through the courts above 

Its glorious theme, redeeming love. 

Then make her grave in some old wood, 

'Mid nature's dreamless solitude. 

Where the sighing breeze and dove's low moan 

May wail the dirge of the gifted one ; 



232 Clara's poems. 

There let her sleep, in that quiet spot, 

And plant the pale forget-me-not. 

With flowers she loved, that their soft perfume 

May breathe sweet incense o'er her tomb. 



THE MIGHTY, TOO, MUST DIE. 

"And how dleth tlie wise man? — as the fool!" — Ecclesiastes, ii. IG. 

And must the mighty die ? Must they 
Sleep with the lowly in the clay ? 

The monarch and the slave. 
The rich, the great — in all their pride — 
Rest with the beggar by their side. 

Unconscious in the grave ! 

The world's dread conquerors, who wore 
Their laurels steeped in human gore, 

Whose fury naught could stem. 
Till death's unerring dart had sped, 
And low in dust now lies the head 

That wore a diadem ! 

Look at the mighty Corsican, 

Whose wild ambition — scourge of man — 

Had set the world on fire ! 
Exiled upon the sterile rock, 
Whose base the surging billows mock. 

Behold him there expire ! 



THE SPIRIT LAND. 233 

Where are the kings of ancient Rome 

And Greece — of knowledge once the home — 

The glorious and the free ? 
They now unknown, unhonored lie ! 
Their graves are passed unheeded by, 

With men's of low degree ! 

And where is now the gallant band, 
The patriots of our own bright land — 

The wise, the just, the good. 
Who never to oppression bowed, 
Who sought no incense from the crowd, 

ISTor trophies stained with blood ? 

They, too, have gone ! Time's onward course 
Hath borne them with resistless force 

Like airy beams away ! 
And oh, may we, who thoughtless live, 
Instruction from them all receive 

Ere we become death's prey ! 



THE SPIRIT LAND. 

The spirit land ! — mysterious bourne — 
The land to which we all must go — 

And yet, how strange, whence none return 
To tell us of its joy or woe I 
21 



234 CLARA'S POEMS. 

The spirit land ! — that mystic word 
Falls ever solemn on mine ear; 

It asks, shall I with angels reign, 
'Or sink with demons to despair ? 

That spirit land ! — the blessed abode 
Of seraphs holy, pure, and bright. 

Of souls redeemed by Jesus' blood — ■ 
A heaven of uncreated light. 

The spirit land !^ — the souls of those 
We most have loved and cherished here- 

The fair, the beautiful of earth — 
Have left us, and are dwelling there. 

The spirit land ! — there strife shall cease, 
The heart no more be filled with care, 

The weary pilgrim rest in peace ; 
The wicked never trouble there. 

The spirit land ! — the eye of faith 
Can pierce beyond this earthly vail, 

And view thy groves of living fruit. 
Thy crystal streams that never fail. 

Land of the blest ! my spirit longs 
To reach thy bright and happy shore, 

To join with those celestial throngs 
That round the burning throne adore. 



AUTUMN MUSINGS, 235 

When shall I gain that bright abode, 
Kedeemed and purified by grace, 

And with my Saviour and my God 
Forever find a dwelling-place ? 



AUTUMN MUSINGS. 

The low, sad wail of autumn 

Is whispering to mine ear, 
In soft and gentle murmurs. 

The death-dirge of the year; 
I see the fading flowers 

Lie scattered on the ground, 
And the withered leaves are rustling 

With a sweet yet mournful sound. 

Yes, 'tis sweet to hear the music 

Of the chill November breeze, 
As it whirls the scanty foliage 

From the stately forest trees ; 
Gone are the robes of beauty 

That clothed each graceful form. 
And, shorn and unprotected. 

They must battle with the storm. 

And though they're fading, dying. 

And desolate appear. 
While the autumn breeze is sighing 

The requiem of the year, 



236 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Yet, the wintry storm surviving, 
They'll bloom more sweet and fair, 

With the genial spring reviving, 
For the germ of life is there. 

And each fading leaf and blossom 

Is an emblem of the doom 
That awaits onr fragile bodies, 

When they slumber in the tomb ; 
But love divine shall raise them. 

When life's wild storms are o'er. 
To bloom in fadeless beauty 

'Mid Eden's bowers once more. 



-feig 



THEEE IS A BETTER WORLD. 

There is a world, whose peaceful rest 

No grief can e'er destroy; 
There all is pure and perfect love. 

And bliss without alloy. 

There is a world, and oh ! how sweet 
The hope that fills my heart ; 

The friends I've lost again I'll meet, 
No more from them to part I 



THERE IS A BETTER WORLD. 237 

In that bright world, calm and serene, 

Their ransomed spirits dwell ; 
The joys of that celestial state 

No mortal tongue can tell. 

And yet, methinks, it must be filled 

With music and with flow'rs, 
They shed such light and happiness 

On this dark world of ours. 

And dark, indeed, this life would be, 

If faith's unerring eye 
Beyond those scenes of pain and care 

No brighter could descry. 

If falsehood we have found where once 

We trusted and believed, 
If where we garnered up our hearts 

We've been the most deceived, — 

Then let us turn to that fair world. 

Where the redeemed shall come, 
With songs of everlasting praise. 

To their eternal home. 



21* 



238 Clara's poems. 



YINVELA. 

. " He thought Vinvela lived ; he saw her hair moving on the plain ; l)ut the fair 

form lasted not — the sunbeam fled from the field, and she was seen no more, hoar 
the song of Shilric, it is soft but sad." — Ossian. 

I SIT by the cool, mossy fountain, 

The lake surges wildly below. 
The dun deer descend from the mountain, 

But no hunter with strong-bended bow ; 
And sad are my thoughts, for Vinvela 

Sleeps under the gray, mossy stone — 
Here I'll sit, when the night winds are moaning. 

And weep for Yinvela — alone. 

Wouldst thou but appear, oh my loved one. 

Thy hair floating free on the wind, 
Thy white bosom heaving with sorrow 

For the friends thou'st left grieving behind ; 
Like a beam o'er the summer cloud breaking. 

Like the moon in the autumn's rich glow. 
She comes, but her voice is as mournful 

As the breeze by the lake sighing low. 

"Returnest thou safe from the battle ? 

Oh I I heard thou wert low with the slain ; 
And alone on tlie hills I have wandered, 
And wept for my Shilric in vain; 



HOURS OF SADNESS. 239 

Until grief like a dark mist was round me, 
O'ershadowing my soul with its gloom, 

And alone in the winter-house sleeping — 
Oh, Shilric, I'm pale in the tomb !" 

As a mist that fleets over the mountain, 

As a sunbeam that quick disappears, • 

So passes my gentle Yinvela, 

And leaves her lone Shilric in tears : 
Yet oft as I sit by the fountain, 

My cheek with my sorrow grown pale, 
I shall hear thy soft voice, my Vinvela, 

As it comes on the light- winged gale. 



HOURS OF SADNESS. 

Oh, I am ill and weary, 

And my soul is dark to-night. 
With memories sweet yet mournful 

Of sorrow and delight; 
For the shadowy past is round me, 

Its struggles and its tears, 
Its changes, hopes, temptations. 

Through long and anxious years ; 

With its dreams of love and beauty, 
That once my heart beguiled, 

When I painted life's bright future 
With the folly of a child. 



240 CLARA'S POEMS. 

But, alas I those glorious visions 
Embodied ne'er have been, 

Or came, like angel visits, 
But few and far between. 

And now I'm slowly passing 

Away from earthly things. 
And my harp is softly murmuring, 

'Mid its worn and wasted strings, 
Of a peaceful grave and quiet. 

By those I've loved the best. 
And a home at last in heaven, 

Where the weary are at rest. 



THE FAIRY ISLE. 

Where the Father of Waters his mighty tide 
Rolls on with a conquering monarch's pride. 
Is a lonely isle, in the far-off West, 
Where the sun's last rays in their splendor rest; 
Where clouds, in their crimson and azure glow, 
Seem mirrored in calm, bright waves below. 
And water and sky in their beauty blend 
Till you scarce can tell where their limits end. 
Oh I it seemed that lonely and lovely spot 
Was a place where care and sin came not ; 
Where life might pass so calmly away, 
We should heed not nature nor time's decay ; 



THE FAIRY ISLE. 241 

And death, at last, like a friend should come, 

To bear us away to a brighter home. 

And, oh I methought how sweet 'twould be, 

With a kindred spirit to wander free, 

Afar from the world and its wildering guile, 

To dwell for aye in this lone, sweet isle; 

To watch, at eve, as the fairy throng 

Trip in their mystic dance along; 

To rove at will through its verdant bowers, 

To gather its sweet and dewy flowers ; 

Where birds with their rainbow plumage spring, 

And make the grove with their glad notes ring ; 

Where, blest with youth, and health, and love. 

Our fairy isle should an Eden prove, 

And the voice of grateful praise arise 

At eve from our Western paradise, 

And the sun, as he sank, should sweetly smile 

His last bright rays on our fairy isle. 



242 CLARA'S POEMS. 



LITTLE ROSABELLE. 

WHENEVER I view thy lowly bed, sweet babe, I still must weep; 
fond memory still recalls thine infant beauty — thine inno- 
cent endearments — for thou wert a lovely child, too bright for earth, 
an angel visitant, and soon recalled into thy native heaven; yet I 
will not mourn for thee that thou art gone — hast left a world that 
had no charms for thee — a cold, a desert world, whose fancied joys 
are like the shooting ray that gleams a moment 'cross the 'nighted 
wanderer's path, then leaves him cheerless as before. Pure, happy 
being, thou hast early fled from life and all its sorrows, and thy stain- 
less spirit hath regained its native bliss ; thy mother's tears embalm 
the hallowed spot where thou, who wast so lovely, young, and fair, 
art wrapped in peaceful and untroubled sleep. 

Yes, I have kissed thy clay-cold lips, 

And bid a long farewell ; 
But still for thee thy mother's heart 

Will mourn, sweet Rosabelle. 

Mine own sweet babe, thine image fair 

Is still to memory dear ; 
And oft we'll to thy grave repair, 

And shed affection's tear. 

For though within the silent tomb 

Thy sleeping body lies, 
It shall with fadeless beauty bloom 

Above the starry skies. 



ON THE DEATH OF MY YOUNGEST SISTER. 243 

From sorrow, dear one, and from grief, 
Thou wert timely snatched away — 

To worlds of light and joy thou art gone, 
And everlasting day. 

A long adieu ! the sigh of pain 

Shall oft my bosom swell ; 
Yet I will not wish thee here again, 

My lovely Kosabelle. 

^^ 



m THE DEATH OF MY YOUNGEST SISTER, WHO DIED 

SUDDENLY. 

I SEE thee yet, my sister dear, 

As in the first warm flush of youth, 
When all thy pure, ingenuous mind 

Shone in thy soul-lit eyes of truth. 
Those deep, dark eyes — thy soft, brown hair — 

Thy sunny smile — thy brow serene — 
Thy lips, like rose-buds wet with dew — 

Thy pearls that gleamed those buds between — 
Thy fairy form — thy buoyant step — 

Thy low, sweet voice — thy winning ways — 
And all thy thousand nameless charms — 

Are present now to memory's gaze. 
When twilight spreads her misty vail. 

And birds have sung themselves to sleep, 
'Mid old, familiar haunts I stray, 

And sadly think on thee, and weep ; 



244 CLARA'S POEMS. 

I sit within thy favorite bower, 

Where oft thy song my cares beguiled, 
Thyself the sweetest, fairest flower — 

Oh, nature's pure and artless child ! 
And when the star of eve comes forth 

With gentle radiance, pure yet bright, 
I often deem, my sister dear, 

Thou'rt gazing from those realms of light ; 
And as the night wind sighs among 

Thy flowers. I lend a listing ear, 
And seem in every lingering breeze 

Thy low, sweet accents still to hear. 
I see thee as when on that day 

The orange-wreath adorned thy brow. 
And thou, with smiles and blushes gay. 

Didst breathe thy happy nuptial vow. 
Oh ! joyous hearts were round thee then, 

' 'Mid mirth and music's social flow; 
Alas ! we little thought how soon 

Our joy would all be turned to woe. 
I see thee in thy winding-sheet, 

A pale and senseless thing of clay. 
And view the sad and mournful throng 

That bears thee to the tomb away. 
And oft I seek thy lowly grave — 

To me the dearest spot on earth — 
And deck it with the sweetest flowers. 

Faint emblems of thy peerless worth. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS, ELIZA ODOM SIMPSON. 245 

Dear one, sleep on ; thy calm repose 
Heeds not the chilling wintry storm ; 

Soon heaven shall raise thy beauteous dust 
Clothed in a glorious seraph's form. 



ON THE DEATH OP MRS. ELIZA ODOM SIMPSON, 

OF INDEPENDENCE, MO. 

But thou hast left us, gentle one, 

And we are lonely now — 
With thy soft smile still on thy lips, 

Though death is on thy brow ; 
Yet long thy memory, like a tone 

Of far-off music sweet, 
Will thrill our lonely, aching hearts, 

As we together meet. 

Thine was the pure and patient faith 

That did not fear to die ; 
It ever beamed upon thy face, 

And in thy soft, blue eye ; 
For oh I so much of grace and truth 

Thy God to thee had given, 
It guided thee e'en from thy youth, 

And led thee up to heaven. 
22 



246 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Yes, thou art gone — the mother, friend, 

Light of thine earthly home — 
And though we mourn, yet well we know 

Heaven but claimed its own. 
Then fare thee well, oh sister sweet ! 

Within each loving heart 
We '11 shrine thy memory till we meet 

Never again to part. 



THE PENITENT. 

Oh ! cold and dreary was the night, 

And fierce the north wind's roar. 
When a poor Magdalen was spurned 

From her betrayer's door: 
Her naked feet and tattered garb. 

Her slight and shivering form, 
Could ill resist the piercing blast. 

Or bide the pelting storm. 

Yet had that faded form been decked 

With silks and jewels rare. 
And moved in wealth and fashion's throng. 

The loveliest maiden there ; 
And she had been a mother's joy, 

A father's hope and pride — 
But now, within the silent tomb. 

They slumber side by side ; 



THE PENITENT. 24t 

For she, their bright, their beautiful. 

The idol of their hearts. 
Became a ruthless villain's prey, 

A victim of his arts. 
And now, cast out, she wandered long, 

Her heart filled with despair ; 
At length she knocked at Mercy's door, 

And sought admission there. 

With ready hand sweet Mercy came. 

And helped the wanderer in ; 
And she, the pure, with pitying eye. 

Wept o'er the child of sin. 
She raised that pale and fainting form, 

And bid the sufferer live ; 
And bade her look to Him alone 

Who could her woes relieve. 

With soft and gentle hand she drew 

The sin-invenomed dart. 
And poured the healing balm of hope 

In that poor bleeding heart; 
She told her, though the world might scorn, 

And treat her with disdain. 
To seek the Lamb whose precious blood 

Could cleanse from every stain. 

The sinner heard, and offered up. 

With many tears and sighs, 
A broken and a contrite heart — 

God's sweetest sacrifice. 



248 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And as she felt the healing stream 

Of pardon fill her breast, 
A smile beamed o'er her dying face, 

And calm she sunk to rest. 

Hark I heard ye not that glorious song 

That seemed to fill the skies. 
As the ransomed spirit was borne along 

To the gates of paradise ? 
And as its portals wide were flung, 

A shout filled heaven's high dome : 
Let your golden harps anew be strung, 

For we bring the lost one home ! 



TO LUCIA. 

Thanks, gentle Lucia; those few lines 

Were deeply felt by me — 
As greetings from a distant friend. 

Whom I may never see : 
Yet kindred souls, though far removed, 

Can hold communion sweet. 
And oft in fancy's bright domain 

Congenial spirits meet. 

Though one has sung that friendship is 

A false and fleeting shade. 
And love alone another name 

For confidence betrayed, 



TO LUCIA. 249 

Yet, oh ! believe it not ; for love 
By God himself was given, * 

And friendship is a holy thing 
That had its birth in heaven. 

And though misfortunes, dark and drear. 

Our fairest hopes may blight. 
If love and friendship but appear. 

How soon our path grows bright ! 
Though few my sunny hours of bliss 

Through life have ever been, 
Those heavenly guests have cheered my heart 

Through every varying scene. 

And as I've read each pious wish. 

So kindly breathed for me, 
I've prayed they all may be returned 

With added grace to thee. 
And when life's weary journey's o'er, 

May angel hands convey 
Thy spirit to that blissful shore. 

Where love shall ne'er decay. 

22* 



250 Clara's poems. 



THE LILY OF WOODLAWN. 

There's many a floweret sweetly blooms 

On mountain, vale, and lea, 
But tlie peerless Lily of the West 

Is gentle Annie D * * * * *. 
Her voice is low and musical 

As song of summer bird, 
Her laugh the thrill of blossom leaves, 

By zephyr kisses stirred. 
And, oh I the deep-blue firmament, 

Where snow-clouds floating lie, 
Is not more lovely than the light 

Of darling Annie's eye. 

Her form is graceful as the fawn's. 

With Juno's regal ease ; 
And Venus clasps her magic zone 

Around her, all to please ; 
And hers the intellectual gifts, 

That make her still more fair ; 
And hers the pure and guileless heart, 

Meekly the crown to wear. 
Long may it bloom upon her brow. 

Untarnished, pure, and bright, 
And no dark tinge of grief and care 

Our peerless Lily blight. 



A JUNE MORNING AT WOODLAWN. 251 



A JUNE MORNING AT WOODLAWN.* 

The breeze is whispering 'mid the leaves, 

And gathering rich perfume 
From every opening bud and flower 

Of summer's ripening bloom ; 
The tuneful lark on dew}' wings 

Mounts upward through the sky, 
As earth and air vibrates and rings 

With nature's minstrelsy. 

A thousand rural echoes glide 

Across Platte's murmuring stream. 
Or mingle with her sparkling tide, 

Like music in a dream ; 
As softly in the eastern skies 

The gates of morn unfold. 
Up springs the day-god from his couch 

'Mid flaming clouds of gold. 

Oh, lovely scene ! so calm, so clear. 

What rapture fills my breast ! 
I seem in every breeze to hear 

A voice that bids me rest ; 
And as I gaze, my spirit, thrilled 

With ecstasy divine, 
Breathes out its fervent orisons 

At nature's holiest shrine. 

* T}ie residence of Gen. G. P. Dorris, Plafte County, Missouri. 



252 CLARA'S POEMS. 



AN INYOCATION. 

Oh I come to me, my spirit love, 

When sunset shadows rest. 
In golden rays of ruby red. 

Upon the mountain's crest; 
Till every glittering wave beneath 

Is crimsoned with the glow. 
And the evening breeze, through waving trees, 

Comes gliding soft and slow. 

And come in dreams, at midnight's hour, 

When night-dews gently weep 
Their pearly tears o'er bud and flower, 

Where silvery moonbeams sleep ; 
When every sound in earth and air 

Breathes only peace and love. 
As if afar each angel star 

Were keeping watch above. 

Come, fold, me to thy loving heart, 

And breathe again love's vow ; 
Eain thy sweet kisses on my lips. 

And on my throbbing brow : 
I'll tell thee then of tearful nights, 

And weary days I've known, 
Since with the dead thy spirit fled, 

And left me here — alone. 



A MORNING AT THE CEMETERY. 253 



A MORNING AT THE CEMETERY. 

Around me, as I muse alone, 

The gentle zephyrs sigh, 
And snowy clouds, like seraph wings, 

'Float through the azure sky; 
The birds pour forth a joyous song 

From every flowery spray, 
The air is languid with perfume 

This glorious April day. 

And, as I list, sad memories wake 

Of friends' and hopes long fled, 
As here I wander all alone 

Amid the quiet dead ; 
I gaze around, and everywhere 

I view the resting-place 
Of many a dear and precious form, 

Now cold in death's embrace. 

There sleeps my dark-haired queenly one, 

The white rose on her brow ; 
My blue-eyed babes are slumbering near — 

Would I were with them now I 
And there my darling sisters rest — 

Their life's short dream is o'er; 
My brother, too ; ah ! earth cannot 

Wound his proud spirit more ! 



254 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Oh ! what a bright and beauteous throng 

Are gathered round me now ! 
Fond glances beam from every eye, 

And smiles light every brow ; 
They fill my soul with faith and hope, 

And sweetly whisper, '' Come; 
Leave all the cares of earth behind ; 

Thou hast a happier home 

With us, where thou wilt find thy lost, 

And kindred spirits greet. 
Whose smile was sunshine to thy heart — 

Each dear one there thou'lt meet. 
Then wait thy Lord's appointed time ; 

The hour is drawing nigh, 
When thou shalt rest thy weary form 

Here, where thy loved ones lie." 

And when like them I softly sleep 

In this sweet, quiet spot, 
Is there a hand that on my grave 

W^ill plant " Forget-me-not," 
And drop a tear of fond regret 

For one who weeps no more ? 
Oh, bid them meet me in that land 

Where weeping all is o'er ! 



THE EVENING STAR. 255 



THE EVENING STAR. 

Thou lovely orb, serene and clear, 

So bright at twilight's pensive hour, 
Throbs there a heart that has not felt, 

And owned thy softly soothing power ? 
What blessed memories round us throng — 

Of friends and hopes long passed away ! 
What gentle tones seem whispering low, 

In every breeze at close of day ! 

The cherished scenes of earlier years, 
Those fair unclouded hours of bliss, 

Undimmed by sorrow or by tears. 
Too bright for such a world as this — 

They come, sweet visions of our youth. 
When daily cares and toils are past, 

And musing memory sadly weeps 
. O'er joys too pure on earth to last. 

They come, beneath thy holy light. 

The friends we've loved and lost below, 
With words as kind and smiles as bright 

As greeted us long years ago : 
And oft we gaze on thee, till eve 

Hath bathed in dew each shrub and flower, 
And think on those dear ones that loved 

To roam with us at twilight's hour. 



256 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And then we pause, as if to hear 

From some familiar voice the tone 
Of gentle vows, to us so dear, 

And start, to find ourselves alone. 
And then our chastened spirit turns 

From all earth's idle dreams of bliss 
To seek beyond thy light, sweet star, 

A purer, brighter world than this. 



THE MAGIC SPELL 

A MAGIC spell was on our hearts, 

Of deep and holy power. 
As we sat amid the gathering gloom 

Of twilight's dreamy hour. 

My hand lay trustingly in thine. 

Its pulses hushed and still, 
And thoughts that angels might have felt, 

Our bosoms softly thrilled. 

Our words were few, and murmured low,— 
One promise asked and given : 

That when earth's ties were rent, I'd be 
Thine " angel bride" in heaven. 

Thy dewy lip the compact sealed 

All tremblingly on mine. 
Yet not one throb of passion marred 

Its purity divine. 



FAREWELL TO WOODBINE COTTAGE. 25t 

Oh ! life hath many moments left, 

I hope, of rapturous bliss ; 
But never can my spirit know 

An hour more sweet than this, — 

Until we meet in yon bright world, 

Where none our souls can sever, 
And God shall bid us reunite. 

And live and love forever. 



-^^- 



FAREWELL TO WOODBINE COTTAGE, 

ON LEAVING INDEPENDENCE, MO., Aug. 31, 1858. 

Farewell, ye kind and gentle friends ! 

I leave you with regret : 
Time hath so softly glided by 

Since we've together met, 
That now I scarce can realize 

That we indeed must part ; 
But long shall these sweet memories - 

Be cherished in my heart. 

A stranger, pale and sad I came, 
Seeking for health and rest. 

And found a friend in every one, 
A welcome in each breast : 
23 



258 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And loving hands were clasped in mine 
When kindred spirits met, 

And words were whispered soft and low, 
Whose spell is o'er me yet. 

Throughout the long sweet summer day 

I've wandered wild and free. 
And like a dream those peaceful hours 

Have fleeted by with me ; 
But now I leave those pleasant vales, 

Those fountains clear and bright, 
Those cool embowering shades where oft 

I've roamed with such delight. 

Adieu, adieu ! when summer blooms 

Again, though I may be 
A wanderer in some other land. 

Dear friends, remember me ; 
^ And when sometimes you pensive muse 

Beneath my star's pale ray. 
Oh, breathe one loving prayer for her, 

The stranger, far away. 



THE AUTUMN MORN. > 259 



THE AUTUMN MORN. 

How the morning sunbeams glimmer 
Through the window-panes so bright, 

Weaving strange, fantastic pictures. 
With their golden quivering light, 

As their dancing shadows fall 

On the carpet, on the wall ! 

Oh ! an autumn morn is glorious, 
With its pure, fresh, bracing breeze 

Whispering, sighing, lightly swaying 
O'er the meadows, through the trees ; 

Singing dirges low and solemn 

Round the maple's leafy column ! 

Fading leaves are slowly falling, 
Tinged with gold and crimson hues, 

And the birds are softly calling, 

" Have you heard the mournful news ? 

List I the autumn winds are humming. 

Winter cold and dark is coming." 

See ! the tender birdlings trying 
If their wings are swift and strong 

For their first, long, weary journey 
To a Southern land of song. 

Where the sunshine and the flow'rs 

Fade not with the summer hours. 



260 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Thus my soul would fain be pluming 
Its glad wings, to soar away 

To that world where ever-blooming 
Summer reigns without decay, 

And no chilling winds of winter 

Through its shining portals enter. 

Autumn, sweet and mournful season, 
How I love thy quiet days ! 

With thy rainbow-tinted forests, 
And thy soft, blue, dreamy haze 

Floating, lingering o'er the mountains, 

Pleasant vales, and murmuring fountains. 

As thy withered leaves are crisping 
'Neath my footsteps, wandering slow. 

Soft, sweet voices seem to whisper, 
" Soon, like us, you may be low. 

Sleeping on the earth's cold bosom, 

Ere another spring shall blossom." 

Yet I grieve not : life hath never 
Been so full of bliss to me 

That I should regret to sever 
Every bond that sets me free ; 

And my spirit with the blest 

Fold its weary wings to rest. 



TO A FRIEND. 261 



TO A FRIEND, 

WHO observed: "you are in this world, but you are not of it. 

Yes, I am only lingering here 

Like some poor prisoned bird, 
And the wailing of my captive soul 

For freedom oft is heard ; 
And from a world that knows me not, 

I turn without a sigh, 
As faith exclaims, ''there is a land 

Where love and truth ne'er die." 

Ah! could I breathe the burning thoughts 

As, torrent-like, they roll 
In visions beautiful, sublime. 

Within my restless soul — 
The fable of the Orphean lute 

Might be realized again, 
And hearts like adamant be moved 

By my low, thrilling strain. 

And yet I live 'mid pleasant dreams 

Of fair and beauteous things — 
A world of love, where angel forms 

With briglit and starry wings 
28* 



262 CLARA^S POEMS. 

Brush softly back my raven curls, 
And kiss my feverish brow, 

And whisper like sweet music, "come, 
We're waiting for thee now." 



A SISTER^S LOVE. 

A sister's love ! how pure, how calm 
The heart by anguish riven. 

Beneath its soft and healing balm, 
Looks up with hope to heaven I 

A sister's kiss no feverish pulse 

Awakens in our breast ! 
It bringeth peace, when on our brow 

A sister's hand is pressed. 

Her voice like music gently soothes, 
When angry passions rise. 

And sheds a moonlight radiance o'er 
Our pathway to the skies I 



OUR BABY BOYS." 263 



"OUR BABY BOYS." 

THE FOLLOWING LINES WERE COMPOSED AT THE REQUEST OF THE 
BEREAVED PARENTS OF TWO LOVELY LITTLE BOYS — THEIR ONLY 
CHILDREN. 

We've laid them here, where the blossoms weep 
Their silvery tears o'er their quiet sleep ; 
Where oft, at eve, on her shining wings, 
An angel comes, and softly sings 
This low, sweet song, our souls to cheer : 
"Weep not for the dear ones mouldering here; 
They are blooming in life and beauty now. 
With God's own smile on each baby brow. 
And their golden harps ring soft and low. 
With a dream of heaven to soothe thy woe." 

Yes, we've laid them where the violet's bloom 
May blend with the rose its faint perfume. 
And bright-winged birds, 'mid the leafy bow'rs, 
May sing through the long, sweet summer hours, 
As the day grows pale, and the zephyr's sigh 
Wakes many a dream of the days gone by. 
Till our hearts grow sad, and our tears will flow, 
As we think of our fair young babes below. 



264 Clara's poems. 



MUSINGS ON THE LAST NIGHT OF THE YEAR. 

I AM dreaming — sadly dreaming, 

As I watch the Old Year die — 
Of the hopes, once brightly beaming 

As yon starry jeweled sky : 
Of the loved, the pure, true-hearted, 

Who have faded one by one, — 
Gathered by the angel-reaper, 

Till the very last is gone. 

Oh, my mother ! why thus leave me. 

All alone on earth to weep ? 
Would that I were resting by thee, 

Where the weary-hearted sleep I 
Thou wert left the last to bless me, 

Of that gentle household band, 
Who, to-night, with smiles caress thee 

In the happy spirit-land. 

Yet not all alone — for softly 

Enters at my chamber door 
One, who ofttimes watched beside me. 

In those blissful days of yore ; 
And her silvery laugh is ringing 

Sweetest music in mine ear. 
While her bird-like voice is singing, 

"Welcome in another year!" 



LITTLE IDA. 265 

And her brother stands beside her, 

With his smiling eyes of love, 
Whispering — "Bear on, stricken mother! 

Soon with us you'll dwell above. 
Where thy many sweet life-blossoms, 

Death has blighted in the tomb, 
Angel hands shall safely gather. 

Sweeter far in heaven to bloom." 

Hark ! the midnight chimes are ringing, — 

Joy 1 another year is born, — 
Friends now part to meet — ah, never, 

'Till the resurrection morn I — 
Then farewell, Old Year, forever, 

O'er thy quiet, lonely grave 1 
Filled with gems of love and beauty, 

Kolls oblivion's voiceless wave. 



LITTLE IDA. 

THESE LINES ARE INSCRIBED TO MRS. T. F. M., WITH THE 
HEARTFELT SYMPATHY OF "CLARA." 

In her tiny coffin lying, 

Like a white dove in her nest. 

With her dimpled fingers softly 
Clasped upon her quiet breast — 
Little Ida's now at rest. 



266 Clara's poems. 

Dim, beneath their fringed covers, 
Sleep the eyes so darkly blue, 

While the parted lips, half open, 
Seem still whispering unto you 
Little Ida's last adieu. 

Loving hands, with bud and blossom 
Fondly wreathe her snowy brow ; 

But she heedeth not their beauty, 
Nor the weeping friends that bow 
O'er her, softly sleeping now. 

All unconscious of the sorrow 

Throbbing at her mother's heart — 

Of her father's tearless anguish. 
Forced from one so loved to part — 
Angel, though he knows thou art. 

Lovely babe I while sadly gazing 
On thy face, methought could I 

Only be as pure and sinless, 
Oh, how calmly could I lie 
Down by thee, and gladly die I 

And where summer roses linger. 
Breathing out their last perfume — 

Where the April violets earliest, 
In their timid beauty, bloom — 
There we'll make sweet Ida's tomb. 



LINES — FOR MUSIC. 267 



LINES-FOR MUSIC. 

Stars of heaven, pure and radiant, 

Beam upon my love to-night ; 
Soothe him, as afar he wanders, 

With your calm and holy light ; 
Breathing soft ecstatic visions 

'Round his pillow as he sleeps, 
Tell him one true heart is lonely, 

And his absence fondly weeps. 

Tell him oft I gaze upon you. 

Till my weary eyes are dim. 
And when all the world lies dreaming, 

Then my spirit pines for him. 
Stars, amid the azure glowing. 

With your soft, ethereal light, 
Shed your sweetest, holiest visions 

O'er my sleeping love to-night. 



26S CLARA'S POEMS. 



TO ADA IN RICHMOND. 

THOU HAST said: *'I AM SURROUNBED BY STRANGERS — I AM 
ALL ALONE." 

Alone ! ah, thou canst never be ! 
Each breeze that softly whispers thee, 
Speaks to thy heart in low, sweet tone, 
That thou canst never be alone. 

Where'er thy lonely footsteps rove. 
There is a voice of ceaseless love ; 
Should care or sorrow bid thee moan, 
It tells thee thou art not alone. 

And when the storms of life arise, 
And clouds obscure thy brightest skies, 
That voice is heard in soothing tone — 
''Dispel thy fears — thou'rt not alone." 

And this sweet voice should cheer thy soul, 
When death's dark shadows o'er thee roll — 
That round the bright eternal throne 
Thou'lt praise thy God, but not alone ! 



A WINTER SCENE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 269 



A WINTER SCENE ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 

It was indeed a glorious scene, 
As fair as mortal gaze, I ween, 

Had ever rested on ; 
The first and palest golden ray 
That ushered in the king of day, 

That moment had begun 

To shed a soft and roseate glow 

On rock and tree, now vailed in snow. 

And on the ice-bound tide ; 
Save in the midst, where dark and deep 
Its mighty torrents onward sweep 

To swell the ocean's pride. 

The morning clouds, like waves of gold, 
Around Aurora's chariots rolled. 

While far off in the west 
The stars, that faintly lingered still 
Like wardens on some beacon hill. 

Sunk slowly to their rest. 

The eastern hills were bathed in light, 
Each craggy steep and mountain height 

Reflected back the glow, 
Till earth seemed like a maiden fair, 
With bridal jewels in her hair, 

And bridal robes of snow. 
24 



210 CLARA'S POEMS. 

Our noble vessel stemmed the tide, 
And dashed the floating ice aside, 

Yet fierce was oft the shock; 
It made our hearts with terror bound, 
Whene'er we heard the crashing sound, 

And felt the timbers rock. 

Those sweet blue hills so far away, 
Those little fairy isles that lay 

Around, I'll ne'er forget ; 
And o'er a gentle group that morn 
That viewed with me the op'ning dawn, 

Fond memory lingers yet. 

Two lovely brides — I see them now — 
The one with fair and smiling brow, 

And eyes so deeply blue. 
One would have thought that from the sky. 
So brilliant was their azure dye, 

They'd caught their radiant hue. 

The other, in whose queen-like air, 
And soft, dark eyes, and raven hair 

Spake fair Italia's child. 
Say, hast thou left thine orange bowers. 
Thy native land of song and flowers, 

And sought our western wild ? 

Yes, woman's faithful heart can brave. 
For him she loves, the angry wave. 
To soothe, console, and bless ; 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 211 

For where thy pure, true altars rise, 
O Love, thou mak'st a paradise 
Bloom in the wilderness. . 

And she, the pale, sad child of song, 
Unnoticed stood amid the throng, 

A lonely stranger there ; 
But oh 1 her thoughts were pure and high, 
While gazing on the glorious sky ; 

She breathed a fervent prayer. 

That life to them might ever prove 
A cloudless morn of hallowed love, 

Undimmed with grief and pain ; 
And when its varying scenes should cease, 
In that bright world of joy and peace 

They all might meet again. 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 

I HEAR thy gentle tones, Spring I 

Thy soft and flute-like voice 
Is floating through the perfumed air. 

Making the earth rejoice; 
'Tis breathing beauty all around, 

It fills the clear, blue sky. 
And the weary-hearted invalid 

Revives when thou art nigh. 



272 CLARA'S POEMS. 

There's music in thy voice, O Spring ! 

That through creation thrills ; 
'Tis heard amid thy leafy groves, 

And in thy murmuring rills, — 
In the song of every tuneful bird 

That carols through the wood, — 
In the dimpling waves that lightly curl, 

And crest the crystal flood. 

'Tis heard in mountain solitudes. 

Afar from mortal ken, 
In the echo of the waterfall, 

In the fairy-haunted glen. 
'Tis the voice of praise and gratitude 

Erom each created thing. 
From nature up to nature's God, 

The incense of the Spring. 

'Tis a voice that sometimes charms my soul 

From its wasting grief and fears ; 
But the heart's low sigh comes sweeping by, 

And thy buds are wet with tears. 
When I think of all the young, the fair, 

The lovely, and the gay 
Who hailed thee one short year ago, 

Bright, beauteous month of May ; 

When life seemed full of bliss, when hope 
Shone radiant on each brow : 

Those joyous hearts and smiling lips, 
Alas ! where are they now ? 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 21 S 

Ah, never more they'll greet thee, Spring ! 

Thou seekest them in vain ; 
For some in silent slumbers rest 

Beneath the rolling main ; 

And some beneath the grassy turf, 

Where thou may'st shed thy bloom, 
And breathe thy sweetest minstrelsy 

Above thy votary's tomb. 
But hark ! a low, soft voice I hear. 

Sighing amid thy flowers, 
" Pale mourner, weep for them no more : 

In amaranthine bowers 

They now repose, where brighter springs 

And balmier breezes blow ; 
Where from the throne of love divine 

The living waters flow ; 
Where sweeter flowers than earth can boast 

Adorn a holier sod : 
Their music is the seraph's song. 

Their light the smile of God." 



24* 



2 '74 CLARA'S POEMS. 



THE WANDEREE. 

Ye starry lights, so soft, so clear, 
To me ye are mementoes dear 
Of hopes that are forever fled. 
Of friends long numbered with the dead, 
Of blissful hours too quickly past. 
Of joys too sweet, too pure to last, 
That like the meteor's brilliant ray, 
A moment gleams across our way, 
And leaves us, when its glare is o'er, 
In deeper darkness than before. 

And as I watch each trembling ray, 
I muse on loved ones far away. 
Who'll gently sigh and think of me 
Whene'er your radiant forms they see ; 
And as remembrance wakes a tear, 
Will whisper, "would that she were here I" 
And thus in spirit oft we'll meet. 
And hold communion pure and sweet. 

Oh, memory ! at this solemn hour 
What heart owns not thy magic pow'r ? 
Who, in the night-wind's gentle moan. 
Hears not each well-remembered tone 
Of some loved voice, whose plaintive strain 
On earth may not be heard again ; 



"there is a spiritual body." 215 

That when the twilight shades grew dim, 
Oft breathed with us the evening hymn, 
And whiled the pleasant hours, away 
With sportive mirth and converse gay ? 

But ah I those cherished friends of youth, 
Those hearts so full of love and truth, 
Those forms in beauty's radiant bloom 
Sleep cold within the silent tomb ; 
And weeping o'er those scenes of bliss, 
Recalled by such a night as this, 
A lonely exile, now I roam. 
Afar from childhood's pleasant home. 



"THERE IS A SPIRITUAL BODY." 

I KNOW not what our forms may be 

When we shall meet above, 
But I know thou'lt be the same to me, 

My own, my spirit love. 
I'll know thee by the mystic tie 

That binds our being here, 
And there, where love can never die, 

'Twill be still more sincere. 



216 CLARA'S POEMS. 

E'en here our hearts hold sweet commune, 

Though distance intervene, 
Amid the busy hum of noon, 

Or midnight's hour serene ; 
For we've a higher world of thought, 

To which our spirits soar. 
Where earthly passion entereth not. 

And earthly dreams are o'er. 

To love, with aught of earthly love, 

My proud soul could not bow ; 
I but adore the glorious intellect 

Whose stamp is on thy brow ; 
For pure as yonder radiant star. 

That smiles so bright above. 
Is every thought of mine for thee. 

My own, my spirit love I 



-^m- 



LINES 

TO ONE WHO CAN UNDERSTAND THEM. 

My heart, it is a mournful thing, 

A lonely dove without a mate. 
That sits, with softly folded wing, 

Within her nest, all desolate ; 
Or like some crushed, neglected flower. 

Despoiled of all its rich perfume. 
That neither sun nor summer shower 

Can cause again to bud and bloom. 



LINES. 27 1 

My heart — oh I 'tis a frozen thing, 

Colder than Nova Zembla's snow, 
That ne'er again can throb and thrill 

With passion's warm ecstatic glow. 
Dead — cold — it lies within my breast — 

Of Love and Joy the living tomb — 
Above whose waveless lethean rest 

No buds of Amaranth* ever bloom. 

I've loved, I've worshiped — oh ! my God I — 

As I can love on earth no more I 
The idol's fallen — cold's the shrine — 

My dreams of earthly bliss are o'er ! 
Then seek not thou the spell to break 

That chills my heart, — 'twere all in vain ; 
Thou canst not, like Prometheus, wake 

The marble into life gain. 

^ Emblem of Hope. 



278 CLARA'S POEMS. 



TO A HUMMING BIRD. 

Thou fairy thing, thou gleam of light, 
Glancing amid the dewy flowers, 

Dashing sweet music from thy wings 
In glittering, flashing, rainbow showers ; 

Oh I how I love to watch thee sip 
The honey-dew, the tears of night, 

That sleep, like kisses on the lip 
Of beauty, melting with delight. 

How joyous, full of bliss, must be 

Thy little life, which only lasts 
Throughout the gorgeous summer day. 

And fades before the autumn blasts, 

Or winter robs thee of one joy. 
One long, delicious day of bliss, 

Rocked in the lily's velvet cup. 

And fanned by zephyr's gentle kiss ! 

How sweet methinks 'twere thus to live, 
And die, when summer blooms depart, 

Soft folded on one faithful breast, 
Ere love's sweet dream had left the heart ! 



"who is CLARA?" 279 



"WHO IS CLAEA?" 

She's a queer little woman, that dwells in a cot, 

So lowly and simple, the world knows her not ; 

Where the birds sing all day, and the sweet flowers bloom, 

Filling the air with song and perfume. 

And peace seems to brood on her halcyon wings, 

O'er the dear little nest where unnoticed she sings. 

She's a sad little woman, though appearing as gay 
As the lark, soaring high at the dawning of day, 
Far up the blue heavens, to gaze on the sun. 
Yet folding her wings ere his bright course is run ; 
All drooping and weary she sinks to her nest. 
To hide the keen arrow still deep in her breast. 

Yes, she's lonely and sad, for death has bereft 

Her home of its jewels — ^not one now is left 

To wake its lone echoes with music and mirth ; 

Like sunbeams they've passed from the beautiful earth, 

Shrouding her spirit in darkness and gloom, 

That the sunlight of heaven alone can illume. 

And she sits in her bower, and dreams of the past ; 
When twilight's pale shadows around her are cast. 
And zephyrs kiss softly the whispering leaves, 
Sweet visions of beauty and gladness she weaves, 
In low thrilling numbers, that flow from a heart 
Where the world and its follies have never a part. 



280 CLARA'S POEMS. 



SONNET. 

O LOVELY bird, that plaintive sings 

All througli the summer night, 
Or sits, with softly folded wings, 

Beneath the moon's pale silvery light — 
Art thou some dim and shadowy sprite. 

With some sad, secret woe oppressed — 
Some mournful echo of the past. 

That will not let thy spirit rest ? 

Hast thou fond " memories " buried deep 

Within thy heart, sweet bird, like me, 
Too sacred for the garish day — 

Too pure for mortal eyes to see ? 
And comest thou at eventide. 

O'er blighted joys once more to weep, 
Or watch o'er loved ones ling'ring here, 

And soothe and guard them in their sleep ? 

Ah I I am weary, sad, and lone, 

And mournful *'mem'ries" fill my heart ; 
But at thy low, sweet, melting tone, 

I bid them like a dream depart. 
Then if thou art some guardian sent 

From those bright realms of starry light, 
Pour forth thy plaintive strains, and thrill 

My soul with thoughts of heaven to-night. 



THE BORDER COUNTRY. 2Sl 



THE BORDER COUNTRY. 

I've been wandering, dearest mother, 

Through the wild and lovely West, 
Where broad prairies blossom 

Like gardens of the blest ; 
Where deep and mighty rivers 

Eoll onward to the main, 
Through hills and valleys glowing 

With fruit and golden grain ; 

Where once the dusky warrior 
♦ Amid the forest strayed, 
Or chased the deer and bison 

O'er the prairie undismayed, 
And built his simple wigwam. 

And snared his finny prey — 
And when the pale face came he passed 

Like morning mist away. 

Now cities rise like magic 

On plain and rocky height, 
And the shrill scream of the engine 

Wakes the echoes day and night — 
And halls of classic beauty, 

Magnificently grand. 
Pour floods of light and knowledge 

Throughout this noble land. 
25 



282 CLARA'S POEMS. 

And far away, dear mother, 

Toward the setting sun, 
'Tis said o'er beds of jewels 

And gold the rivers run ; 
And as I've watched the gorgeous clouds 

Slow melting into heaven, 
I've wondered if their tints were not 

The glow of jewels riven. 

Oh, it is a land, dear mother. 

Where all the oppressed may come. 
And find a peaceful refuge. 

Warm welcome and a home, — 
Flowing with milk and honey. 

Of every good possessed. 
In this second land of promise. 

This Eden of the West. 



khiC': 






r^ 
^ 



P!Cl3?ttt'S< 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Sweet mother, I have left thy side, 

To woo, in distant climes, 
The balm of health unto my brow. 
That throbs so strangely, wildly now, 

So different from those by-gone times. 

And I have left thine anxious care, 

Thy deep, untiring love. 
That sought to guide my youthful days 
In virtue's pure and peaceful ways, 

And train me for the world above. 

Yes, now I'm in a stranger's house, 

Afar from childhood's friends ; 
And vainly do I strive to find 
A solace for my careworn mind ; 
But naught can ever make amends 

(283) 



284 Ada's poems. 

For all I've left. Though kind and bland 
The stranger's words may be, 

They soothe me but a fleeting hour ; 

My heart still owns a mother's power, 
Still turns, though distant far, to thee. 

And when the long and weary day 

Is past away and gone, 
My soul, with sleepless grief oppressed. 
All vainly seeks, yet finds no rest, 

It hears no tender loving tone. 

Then, mother, then do I recall 

Thy words of love once more, 
And memory's sweet and holy pow'r 
Still cheers me in that lonely hour, 
Recalls the bliss I fear is o'er. 

Familiar faces round me gleam, 

With thy dear sacred form, 
And many loved and lost I see. 
Who shared life's brightest hours with me. 
Who shared its sunshine and its storm. 

Then, mother, do I feel thy tears. 

As on our parting day; 
They seem to linger on my cheek — 
Oh I then I feel my heart would break, 

Could I not, mother, weep and pray. 



TO MY MOTHER. 285 

Thy kiss still thrills upon my lips, 

Thy voice I seem to hear ; 
And thus, my mother, doth thy child 
The weary hour of night beguile, 

And fondly fancy thou art near. 

My mother, it may be on earth 

That we shall meet no more ; 
The stranger's turf my form may press, 
And I without one fond caress 

May die upon this distant shore : 

The stranger's careless foot may tread 

Above my mouldering clay — 
No flowers I love around me wave, 
No tears bedew my lonely grave, 

From home and thee so far away. 

Yet weep not, if we're severed thus. 

Amid the seraph train, 
Where earth's sad partings are unknown, 
With angels, at our Father's throne, 

Shall Ada greet thee once again. 

25* 



286 ADA'S POEMS. 



GIVE TEARS. 

Come hither ! give tears, kind tears, 

To friendship now departed. 
The guiding light for years 

Of the sorrowing, broken-hearted ; 
Give tears, yet breathe not a word 

To soothe the soul thus riven. 
For silent tears to the grieved 

Is sympathy like heaven. 

Oh ! how vain in this gloomy hour 

To proffer a balm to the heart I 
As well strive to the broken flow'r 

New life and bloom to impart, 
As to renew a friendship perished 

In hearts thus rent in twain. 
Bring back the hopes once cherished 

Too fondly, yet how vain ! 

But tears give, soul-felt tears. 

To the lonely, careworn heart. 
That has seen the joy of years. 

Like a morning dream depart ; 
Ay ! tears, deep tears, for those 

Who thus linger alone on earth. 
Who have held the thorn and rose. 

True emblems of grief and mirth. 



DAY DREAMS. 287 

Give tears ; no, cease them now, 

'Twould only a mockery be 
To weep for the heaven-born soul 

At last from its bondage free. 
But smile, when ye give your last 

Fond kiss to this beauteous clay, 
To think she is now with the blessed, 

Where all tears "are wiped away." 



-T^SSS- 



DAY DREAMS. 

Those day dreams, those day dreams, 

How lovely they seem 1 
Now brilliant with hope 

As the rainbow's soft gleam ; 
Dazzling with beauty 

Our gaze, as we view 
Them reflected with joy's 

Rich colored hue. 

Oh, could we retain them, 

Life then would not seem 
As fitful and varied 

As yon rolling stream, 
Which in majesty sweeps 

Through the dark vale away, 
Or in beauty moves soft 

'Neath the bright orb of day. 



288 ADA'S POEMS. 

Oh ! it reminds, it reminds me 

Of life's changing scenes, 
As it sparkles and dazzles 

'^eath the sun's golden beams — 
And radiant and flashing 

Is fleeting away, 
To be mingled and lost 

In some dark rolling bay. 

Though a day dream, a day dream ! 

What in life is so sweet 
As those visions of beauty 

So fair, yet so fleet ; 
When the dark cloud of sorrow 

Rolls back for a while, 
And the sunlight of hope 

Breaks forth with a smile I 



BEAR ME AWAY TO MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 289 



BEAR ME AWAY TO MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 

REQUEST ON LEAVING K FOR X , 1844. 

Oh bear me away to my cliildhood's home, 
Where my early friends are dweHing ; 

Oh bear me away ere death shaU come, 
With grief my bosom sweUiug, 

For far away from aU I love, 

'Mid strangers, I am sighing 
For one familiar look or tone 

To soothe me when I'm dying. 

Oh bear me away, for my spirit yearns 

For a mother's quiet care ; 
Oh bear me home, for there alone 

It yields not to despair. 

Let me recline my throbbing brow 

On her kind, tender breast; 
As when in my guileless infancy 

I found a peaceful rest. 

Away, away to my childhood's home ! 

Oh let me view once more 
The woods, the hills, o'er which I roamed 

In those happy days of yore. 



290 ADA'S POEMS. 

Serenely there, I'd welcome death, 
And there in peace could die : 

To have my heart's warm treasured friends 
Receive my latest sigh. 

And lay me in that old graveyard, 

Whose paths I used to rove 
Ere my soul awoke from its first sweet dream 

And trust in earthly love ; 

And where the sun's last golden ray 

May gild my grave at even; 
Where the first faint star gleams softly forth 

From the clear blue vault of heaven ; 

And where the first pure violet 

May shed its sweet perfume, 
And the dove her plaintive melody 

May breathe around my tomb. 

Then bear me away to my childhood's home 1 

This is my last request ; 
That in the arms that held me first 

I may calmly sink to rest. 

Oh bear me away to those dear scenes 

For which in dreams I sigh ; 
That I may have the friends I love 

Around me when I die. 



NO, NOT TOO late! 291 



NO, NOT TOO LATE! 

I ACCIDENTALLY becnme possessed of a pamphlet (from a pri- 
son) entitled "A Word in Season," on which was written these 
soul-stirring words — ^^But it came too late!'^ the perusal of which 
suggested the following lines. 

Oh, erring one, say not too late, 
While yet thou hast a soul to save ! 

While the throbbing pulse of life still beats, 
Mercy seek and mercy crave. 

On thy bended knee to God, 

Trembling suppliant, lowly bow ; 

Though thy sins are deep and many, 
He may hear thee even now. 

For his mercy long endureth, 
Though it oft repelled may be, 

Still the doors of his salvation 
Open yet remain to thee. 

Oh, remember life is fleeting ! 

Oh, remember death will come I 
Canst thou dare to meet thy Saviour, 

Canst thou dare a sinner's doom ? 

Endless hours of torture, sorrow. 
Endless hours of grief to know, 

Where the damned have no to-morrow. 
But one long dread night of woe. 



292 ADA'S POEMS. 

Then, erring one, say not too late ; 

Jesus died for such as thee : 
Oh, repentant, seek thy Saviour, 

Jesus pours his mercy free ! 

Though thy sins are dark and deadly, 
Though thy soul deep crime has known, 

If repentant thou wilt seek Him, 
Thee He will not still disown. 

A Word in Season, hear, I pray. 
In deep contrition seek thy God ; 

Out of season never say, 

But humbly kiss the chastening rod. 

Crash the sin within thy heart, 
Bending low upon thy knee. 

Crush each dark rebellious thought, 
Pray in deep humility. 

Long in prayer now seek thy God, 
He is all that's left to thee, 

Thus for thy many sins atoning. 
And He at last will set thee free. 



THE daughter's LAST PRAYER. 293 



THE DAUGHTER'S LAST PRAYER. 

Come hither, mother ; on thy breast 

Oh let me lay my head and weep I 
There, when an Infant, I found rest, 

There, oft, you've lulled me unto sleep. 
And sing me, mother, even now, 

The songs you sung unto me then ; 
Wipe the cold dews from off my brow, 

And smiling, sing those songs again. 

Oh, mother ! weep not that I ask 

Thee to recall those hours of bliss ! 
It shall not prove an idle task 

Comparing those sweet hours with this. 
And well I love them to recall — 

My childhood's calm and happy days — 
When every future scene of life 

Was colored by hope's brilliant rays. 

Mother, such visions fill my soul 

Of pure ecstatic joys on high. 
That I can gladly welcome death. 

And leave the world without a sigh 
Sweet mother, weep not when I'm gone — 

When in the silent grave I'm laid — 
Do not recall the heart that's lone, 

You know not all the grief it had. 
26 



294 Ada's poems. 

And now I feel that Death is coming, 

Though his approach seems slow, to me 
Mother, with joy, oh ! not with mourning, 

Look on thy child from sorrow free ; 
For, mother, it were better now 

That she in youth should pass away, 
Than live for grief to dim her bjow. 

And bear within her heart decay. 



-^^- 



THOU DIDST RETURN, MY STRICKEN DOYE. 

"With the incense bteathing morn, 
Her soul went up to God." 

Thou didst return, my stricken dove. 

To fold thy wings and die ; 
The bosom that sustained thee first 

Received thy last faint sigh ; 
We watched thy struggles through the night, 

And as the first pale ray 
Of morning dawned serene and bright. 

Thy spirit passed away. 

Away to that pure home of bliss, 
For which so long thou'st sighed — 

The robe, the harp, the crown, prepared 
For all the sanctified ; 



THOU DIDST RETURN, MY STRICKEN DOVE. 

To dwell with loved ones gone before, 

In those celestial bowers, 
To realize thy dying words,* 

"Sweet heaven is filled with flowers." 

My Ada, oh ! my precious one, 

Can I forget when thou 
Didst call me, as the damps of death 

Were gathering on thy brow, — 
"Dear mother, do not weep, although 

Our parting hour has come, 
For this I prayed when far away — 

To die with thee at home." 

"And God has heard my prayers, and now, 

Dear mother, give me up ; 
For well thou knowest in life's sweet morn 

I've drained affliction's cup ; 
But now my Saviour calls me home 

From all my griefs and care. 
To join the angels round his throne — 

My mother, meet me there !" 

"Dear brother, and ye loving friends 
That now surround my bed. 
Mourn not for me, and let no tear 
Of grief be o'er me shed ; 



295 



* A short time previous to her death, I gave her some flowers a 
friend had sent her ; after inhaling their fragrance, she exclaimed : 
<'0h, how sweet heaven is filled with flowers!" 



296 ADA'S POEMS. 

Death is a sweet release to me : 

Then promise, when I die, 
To seek your God, that we may meet, 

And reign with him on high." 

And thus our loved one passed away 

To her eternal rest, 
And we laid her in that old graveyard. 

With the green turf on her breast ; 
We laid her where the dove may breathe 

Her low, sweet song at even. 
And the stars she loved watch o'er her sleep, 

Like angel eyes from heaven. 




ZNamtvED J3Y ea:. , 



y^^^z^- ^' /^i/^?^/i^t^ 



^yr. 



^0lt» 






BY 



JOHN L. MARLING. 



NAPOLEON. 



BY THE LATE HONORABLE JOHN LEAKE MARLTNG, U. S. MINISTER TO 
GUATEMALA, CENTRAL AMERICA. 

Like some bright meteor of the night, 

He flashed before the world, 
And startled kings in pale affright 

To see how soon he hurled 
Oppression to the groaning sod. 
And smote earth with an iron rod ! 

The nations of the earth beheld 

With joy his advent bright, 
And joyed to see the hoary spell 

Of Ignorance and night 

Dissolve before his matchless stride 

Like shadows at the morning tide. 

2G* 

(297) 



298 POEM BY JOHN L. MARLING. 

Oh, Italy I thou promised land, 
'Twas on thy sunny plains 

He first essayed, with giant hand. 
To break the galling chains 

Which tyranny had cast about 

The land where rose the legion's shout 1 

Egypt beheld her ancient ground 

His myriads cover o'er; 
And Pyramids looked darkly down. 

And trembled at the roar 
Of cannons thundering at their base, 
To scourge anew the Prophet's race I 

The anchored Isle beheld his sway 

Extending far and wide, 
And dimly saw the coming day 

When Europe in her pride 
Should tamely crouch beneath his yoke, 
And tremble, as her fate he spoke. 

Then leagued she with the foes of man. 

To dim the rising star, 
And vainly sought in battle's van 

To stay the hero's car, 
Which came resistless as the flash 
Of lightning, or the thunder's crash. 

She sought in vain, till fortunes vast 
Tempted the Chieftian on 



NAPOLEON. 

To stake bis kingdom on the cast 

Of war, and war alone, 
And seek on the ensanguined field 
To make the world submission yield. 

Oh Fate ! why didst thou tempt so far 

This favorite child of thine, 
Nor crush the murdering lust for war 

That quenched those rays divine 
Which beamed forth from his genius bright. 
And flooded earth with burning light ? 

Oh Genius ! when thou gavest to him 

Thy spirit's strength and pride. 
Didst know how Europe's shores thou'dst lave 

In passion's gory tide ? 
Or knowing, didst thou only care 
To wring the sigh and draw the tear ? 

Yet, blame him not, the hero-god, 

His heart was ever kind. 
And lofty as the Alps he trod 

The grandeur of his mind ; 
And oft he sighed, and oft he wept. 
When with the dead his chosen slept. 

What recks it, if on battle-field 

He never showed regret ; 
Within that outward form of steel 

The noblest feelings met, 
And in a current coursed along, 
As burnins^ as the tide of song. 



299 



300 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 

Oppressor, call him what you will, 
But bear it well in mind, 

His equal we may never see 
Again among mankind ; 

Another mind, so truly great, 

All coming time may not create. 



THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 

FROM THE NASHVILLE UNION AND AMERICAN. 

We regret to announce the decease of Hon. John L. 
Marling, United States Minister to Guatemala and for- 
merly one of the editors of this paper, who died at his 
residence at Oakland, in the vicinity of this city, yesterday 
morning, at three o'clock, in the thirtieth year of his age. 

In all the walks of life, Mr. M. was a gentleman at 
home and abroad ; a gentleman, in the highest sense of 
the term. Brave, honest, and upright, he won the esteem 
of the good and the true with whom he came in contact. 

He has been cut down in the morning of manhood — at 
that critical period of life when men become most burdened 
with the cares of this world. He desired to live for the 
sake of the fond wife of his choice and the two dear 
pledges of their affection which God had given them. He 
was at first disposed to murmur at his hard lot; but his 
mind underwent a great change, and he was willing to 
leave this world, in the bright hope of finding a better. 



THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 301 

Without any special advantages in the way of education, 
in very early life he was placed in a printing-office — that 
''college" from which have emanated so many great men, so 
many bright intellects, such a number of leading minds — thus 
entering upon a profession which, in this country, governs and 
guides the popular mind. In the printing-office he not only 
pursued his business with alacrity, but in his leisure moments 
was constantly engaged in reading and studying standard 
authors ; progressing in mental culture step by step. He 
had something of a poetic turn of mind. How could it be 
otherwise, when his mother is recognized as one of the ^" 
most gifted poetesses in the South? Her son often felt 
the lofty inspiration — often did he sip nectar from the 
mount of Parnassus ; but his innate modesty forbade his 
permitting such efforts as he committed to paper to see the 
light. How many chords of the lyre within the poet's 
heart have been dumb to the world's earl With his 
taste for refined and elevated literature, he possessed a 
strong practical feeling, and that rare faculty called "com- 
mon sense," which is the true index of real greatness. 
From his youth up he read and thought much of the omni- 
potence, the justice, and the mercy of God. He possessed 
a remarkable veneration for the incomprehensible, immacu- 
late and glorious Jehovah. 

He connected himself with the First Baptist Church in 
1842, and was baptized by Rev. Dr. Howell, in company 
with several other young gentlemen of this city. 

Forsaking, for a time, the printing-office, he entered 
upon the study of law, in the office of Hons. A. 0. P. 



302 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 

Nicholson and Russell Houston, under whose tutelage he 
was soon enabled to obtain license to practice at the bar. 

He was induced, however, soon after, to take charge of 
the Daily Gazette of this city as its editor — a position 
which gave him an opportunity to display his intellectual 
attainments before the popular mind. Subsequently he 
took charge of the columns of the Nashville Union. In 
the Pi-esidential canvass of 1852 partisan feeling ran high 
— criminations and recriminations were common with 
editors of opposite opinions. Such was the fierceness of 
political warfare, that he had a personal difficulty with a 
gentleman at the head of an opposition organ, and was 
severely wounded by a pistol shot, which caused him much 
suffering. 

On the 1st of August, 1854, Mr Marling was appointed 
by President Pierce as American Resident Minister near 
Guatemala. He immediately issued his valedictory to 
the readers of the Union, and took his departure to Cen- 
tral America. After a residence of nearly two years in 
Guatemala, his health becoming enfeebled, he obtained 
leave of absence for the purpose of returning to his 
native land. His indisposition increased to such an ex- 
tent, that he was compelled to stop for several days at 
]S"ew Orleans, under medical treatment. Finally he reached 
his home in the vicinity of this city, and again put his 
foot on his own threshold at Oakland Cottage, where wife 
and children, mother and kind relatives, gladly welcomed 
him. 

Por weeks past has he suffered — disease slowly wasting 



THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 303 

away his frame — until death came and took him to the 
spirit world — to that untrodden land from whence " no 
traveler returns." He was willing to die — feeling that 
reliance upon God which the Christian only can feel. He 
went in peace. He left no bitter pangs behind — no ani- 
mosities, no resentments. He freely forgave all, and was 
as freely forgiven by Him who rules in the high courts of 
heaven. His numerous friends will long remember his 
virtues, his talents, his nobleness of soul, and his trium- 
phant departure to the world of glory. N. 



-^^ 



OBITUARY. 

FROM THE FIFTY-FIRST NUMBER OF THE MASONIC MIRROR AND 
KEYSTONE, DECEMBER 7tH, 1856. 

At a Stated Meeting of the Phoenix Lodge, No. 131, 
Free and Accepted Masons, held in JSTashville, Tennessee, 
on Saturday, the 25th of October, a.d. 1856., a.l. 5856, 
the following preamble and resolutions were unanimously 
adopted : — 

Whereas, in the dispensation of an All-wise Providence, 
it has pleased the Grand Master of the Universe to call 
our beloved Brother, Honorable John L. Marling, from 
labor in Terrestrial Lodges to refreshment in his Celestial 
Lodge on high ; yet, while we mourn his untimely loss, we 
sorrow not as those without hope. 

Resolved, That we hereby tender our heartfelt sympathy 
to his bereaved family. 



304 THE LATE HON. JOHN L. MARLING. 

Resolved, That the membersof this Lodge wear the usual 
badge of mourning for thirty days. 

Resolved, That the above preamble and resolutions be 
entered on our records, a copy furnished the family of the 
deceased, and a copy furnished the Mirror and Keystone, 
Philadelphia, for publication. 

Edward D. Hicks, Secretary. 

The above preamble and resolutions were forwarded to 
us by our faithful agent and highly esteemed Brother, 
T. B. Hamlin, accompanied with a beautiful poem, written 
by the talented mother of the deceased, which we regret we 
cannot find room for, being so near the close of the present 
volume. 

Brother Marling was only thirty years of age, yet he 
had attained a high position among his fellow-men, and 
was endeared to all who knew him, by the kindness of his 
heart and the purity of his life. At the time of his decease, 
he was United States Minister to Guatemala. He was buried 
with Masonic honors. His remains were followed to the 
grave by a large number of the citizens of Nashville, a 
United States military company and band. After the 
solemn services of the Order at the grave, the military fired a 
salute, in honor to the deceased as a United States officer. 

Weep not, wife, nor child, nor mother; in the unseen, in- 
visible world, where the immortal spirit of the deceased 
exists, there, happy in the consciousness of having faith- 
fully fulfilled his mission here on earth, he will be exalted 
to higher honors ; and a happy reunion awaits you, when 
the Grand Master above shall call you from your labors here. 




Q 



« 9 




t. t « 







o 










.40^ 







'^9' 








.-i^^ 



lO^ •IV*. V V^\«l^% 




e 



♦V//;^^"'^ -^ .1^^ * 





-ov^' 




.40^ 












,■10^ 







N O 














y ^. o 



























.s.^"^^ 



1 1 • 



!io^ 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process, 
«< Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 







^ PreservationTechnologies ^ 



A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
r Cranberry Township, PA 1 6066 

(724) 779-2111 



N O 




^4?''' .oO^lV/^. 







«>• * 






c- .*j^f^^\ -o^ ,4,-^** /^5t-. '"-'^. .c"\«>.^^% -o.. .,4 



.■i<3«. 




* ■''^«, 




%,''r7.'\<P V*^-'\/ %'^^*/ "^ 











HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

.^ DEC 88 




N. MANCHESTER, 
5^2^ INDIANA 46962 



• no' aO -^ 





